Indefinite colour
by Heavens-spirit
Summary: Lothíriel and Éomer meet as their two nations is trying to make peace, not quite like in the original Tolkien univers They are both in a place where they are not entirely happy, but will this nurture or prevent a friendship? Seen from both's side.(I haven't added chapters to this story in years, and frankly it needs a bit of work, but I am planning on finishing it after my VDstory)
1. Chapter 1

Authors note:

This story is almost true to Tolkien's universe, but there are several small differences that were needed if the plot should work out and I feel obliged to inform the reader of this before beginning.

The major difference is the fact that the principal of Dor-en-Ernil and Rohan has been fighting each other for years and Prince Imrahil and King Éomer has never met. In the real book they were close personal friends.

I hope these changes will not deprive anyone of the lust to read my story and furthermore I pray that you may all enjoy it. I am always happy to hear your opinions and constructive criticism.

Chapter 1 - the promise of pride

Lothíriel was the princess of Dol Amroth and though she did not always act the part, she looked every inch a princess as she rode amongst her countrymen. She sat behind an appointed trustworthy soldier chosen to take his Lady safely to their destination on his big and tranquil horse. Her black hair had been pulled back tightly and crowned with a silver headdress which seemed ridiculously elegant in comparison to the simple landscape surrounding them. The men was wearing amours as if they were heading for the battlefield, and beside them she was like a silk scarf next to rock. The princess seemed utterly displaced among the warriors, but their kind smiles at her, indicated that they did not see her as such. Sure, she was not a man, nor a fighter, but she was loved and praised for her bright spirit.

Lothíriel had a dreamy look on her face gazing longingly towards the North, hardly affected by bumps of the rocky road. One could tell, by her elegant pose, that she was no stranger to horseback riding, although she was usually never allowed in the saddle alone. As a royalty she was supposed to learn the ability of riding, but her father always had a good explanation why she should not begin her lessons, mostly stating that she was all too fragile to deal with the strong creatures. Lothíriel knew that she did not appear strong and in truth she was not all well-built. When she was younger her brothers teased her, for not being able to fight them and for hiding behind their mother when she couldn't stand the rough game. The only thing strong about Lothíriel was her mind and maybe her tongue. But words were not weapons to be underestimated especially not in a man's world, where muscles might be important, but not decisive. However, she was not considered muscular enough to ride, not by her father and not by men in general.

Therefore she was always forced to rely on others to ride with her, no matter how much she hated it. This, however, was far from her thoughts in those hours, because she was reflecting on the goal of their journey. It was a two week travel to the capital of Rohan, Edoras, and the only roads available were poorly maintained, since their two lands had not been on friendly terms in decades.

Her home, Dor-en-Ernil, was a principal of Gondor, but because they had always felt very liberated from the rest of the country, they had also had their own wars. The dispute with the Rohan was one of them and so old that none really remembered who started it. It was rather stupid when you took the time to think about it, because the two nations didn't even share boarders. You probably couldn't even call it wars, but it had been enough to make the Rohirric a part of the cursing vocabulary in Dor-en-Ernil. During these last couple of years, when the terrible War of the Ring had been upon them, all the small, yet consistent, battles had stopped and the quarrel temporarily forgotten. When Gondor had called upon the Rohirrics for help her father Prince Imrahil had gone to fight alongside the horsemen causing both of the leaders to reconsider their mutual repugnance towards each other. Her father had arranged a meeting of conciliation with the new king of Rohan, Éomer son of Éomund.

The name of the royal guard carrying her on his stallion was Daemyn and he was understandably proud of the goodwill he had been shown and was determined to perform the task, of transporting his mistress to perfection. His good intentions however made her feel almost smothered, for she hardly got to breathe before he turned to her once more, asking if she was acceptably comfortable and polite as she was she could not manage to discard his questions.

"Hold on Princess. We'll be able to see the town in a few minutes," he comforted her needlessly when she accidentally yawned.

"You've done an excellent job soldier," she replied graciously and patted him friendly on the shoulder. "I shall remember to tell your captain how you never once neglected me or failed to fulfil your duty. Surely taking care of a pitiful helpless woman such as myself, have not been as glories as you pictured it, but I assure you, no time has been wasted."

"Oh no don't say that Milady," he objected loudly, twisting in the saddle in the attempt to see her, almost pushing her to the ground. "Assisting you has been a thrill and you are not helpless at all." She sniffed sardonic, tired with men's consistent need for pleasing her, as he continued softly, "I've seen your Highness practising the bow and you never miss the target. Indisputably this is not the characteristics of a helpless maiden."

"You flatter me," she said blushing as it was appropriate when given such compliments. It was true that she mastered the bow, but only for sports, and she could hardly hit at a long distance. Her mother had insisted that she learned a weapon, because she had learned the hard way that even women unwillingly get involved in battles sometimes. Daemyn also glorified her aim, for though she had been granted a very capable pair of eyes, the arms didn't always match in strength.

"Not at all," he demanded. "Apart from Éowyn of Ithillien, the great slayer of the Witch King, you must be the fiercest of women in all of Arda." Although she heard conviction in his voice she carried on with the proper shy modesty.

"Hardly, lot's of women fight better than I. Besides I am not certain that I am capable of killing if finally deciding to prove myself." These were true words and she could almost imagine him smiling knowingly.

"Then you would not be the first lady to feel so. Woman weren't originally made for fighting," when he could hear her breathing heavily at this argument and quickly added, "Although they can be as terrifying and lethal as men, when angered and carrying a sword."

Her wrath towards differentiation between the genders was commonly known in Dol Amroth and even the soldiers were careful not to exercise their usual dirty phrases with her around. She was a very gentle woman and did not easily lose her temper, but pity the fool who enraged her. As a child she had been always been calm and moderate, never impatient or wild, but she was sensitive and when she grew to be conscious of injustice she became a small guard of the court where she often uttered inappropriate words towards wrongdoers. Over time harsh teachers of etiquette had trained her to control the emotions and she now mastered the delicate serenity of a true noble lady. She forgot the boring and dreary past of education when suddenly they reached the top of a hill and was able to see the little village of Efharis.

Lothíriel liked the simple architecture of the Rohirric cities and that they used wood instead of stone to build their walls of shelter. The dominating colours of the decorations and patterns covering the facades were the traditional green and gold. In Dor-en-Ernil everything had to be blue or white and she resented the sterile and cold tint. It had to be so perfect, clean and cultivated. Rohan, being further to the north was wilder and the habitants more dependent on the mercy of the sky. It was not only the land itself that echoed from an unlike kind of power, but so did the people. When she was little and her mother told her that every woman in Rohan knew how to handle a horse she had not believed it, but seeing these proud, valiant and strong mothers and daughters all doubt vanished.

Riding down to the gathering of houses she agreed with her father that she was a brittle little girl. All the women passing them looked like they could have slain the Witch King like their princess had done it. They weren't heavy and manly, but the way they walked so every straw of grass would tremble and their eyes likened those of goddesses of earth and stone. They carried great burdens like it was silk on their shoulders and the tall slender figures never stumbled or fell. A bit thrown off by these different people only half a moon from her home in Gondor she moved herself closer to the man in front of her seeking protection.

Her father halted and the procession behind her followed his lead. Leaving most of the escort outside the gates to start raising the tents the prince and a few close guards rode into the village where a thickset man stood expecting them on the town square. The blond characteristic hair was not strange to her, as her father was as dark a man as her mother was light. She was dark-haired herself, but in summertime it turned light brown. The man bowed deeply. Both her and her father had been nervous to how the Rohirrics would receive them after the wars that had raged between them, but the look of the man before them was warm and welcoming.

"Welcome Prince Imrahil of the South and greetings dearest of friends," the thane spoke, a smile on his reddish face. "Joyful is the day the Prince of Dol Amroth makes peace with our Lord of the Mark." Her father dismounted and went to shake the hand of the mayor. Lothíriel decided that she liked the choppy man, but instead of running eagerly to thank him, she stayed in her seat waiting to be called upon. Daemyn seemed anxious and she was guessing he was so young he was afraid to make mistakes. _He must be about fifteen;_ she reckoned placing a soothing hand on his shaky arm. In return she was granted an appreciative look before he dismounted like the rest of the guards, who were far older than him.

"… and we are most grateful for your hospitality," she heard Imrahil recite before the two men turned towards her.

"Who is this exotic beauty, your wife perhaps?" Her father was older than he looked and it wasn't the first time she had been mistaken for the Mistress of Dor-en-Ernil in spite of her young age.

"No sadly not. The princess is my daughter and my faithful companion when travelling." The thane got a look of realization on his face.

"Oh I see, the famous Lothíriel of Gondor? Rumours of your splendid mind and the loveliness of your face have not been exaggerated. What a bewitching pair of emerald eyes you've got princess. Just like the green of the mark."

"My Lord, I am not worthy of your compliments."

"From the bottom of my heart Milady, I never saw a pair of eyes like that, nor a smile so kind." Lothíriel was used to these silken remarks being nobility and regarded them for nothing more than polite conversation.

"Thank you. What a pleasant start on what we can only hope will be a successful visit." She sent him her most warm smile and a glittering look to go with it, and as always the recipient was taken aback at the amount of passion she was capable of displaying. A common mistake among fine ladies was that a big smile was improper, but Lothíriel had found that it opened rather than closed doors for her.

She was not considered an exquisite beauty, although being fairly appealing with her dark hair and nicely shaped face. _A woman with riches is always beautiful,_ she thought cynically.

Lothíriel looked tall because of her posture and the swan neck, but she was actually rather small. The long lashes tended to capture and enchant men and though she was not aware of it quite a bit of the young and middle-aged men visited the court ever so often just in the hope that she would glance their way. The most remarkable about her was her character, however, was her tenderness. No woman in all of Arda could compare to her kindness, her innocence, her knowledge or her charm. When she attended the feasts the dancing did not stop until the early morning. Lothíriel was as capable of being as fun and glowing as she was capable of being refined and solemn and almost everybody loved her. She was considered to be somewhat lively for a fine lady, laughing and smiling all the time, but in Dol Amroth they were used to this feature.

Some, however, feared her skill and others envied her appearance, even if they were far more attractive than her. Lothíriel was naive and never saw evil in others, so her father and her brothers had become very protective in order to shield her from the cruel reality. Her childishness, on the other hand, was also a side of her much adored, simply because she rarely became disappointed or angry with anyone. She did enjoy heated discussions at times when discovering an interesting subject and her arguments mostly won because she was witty and fond of books to broaden her view and strengthen her competency.

The princess was not arrogant though, but she was a bit of a dreamer and people easily confused her mindly absence with pride. Since her mother was always ill, and spend all her time in a cottage in the mountains, Imrahil spoiled Lothíriel with attention and gifts. Gifts she did not entirely appreciate, because she had no need of them. Usually she did not wear fancy dresses and rare stones, but preferred a simple gown, which was better suited for working. Because of her linguistic skills she was also the hostess of most of the royal parties, even though she was shy among too many people, and she always accompanied him on travels to other countries, especially when the purpose was making allies. Her brothers were a pair of bullies, and the elder and more sophisticated one never left the city when Imrahil was gone. This time that particular tradition was regarded even more important, if the meeting should end in a fatal fight and then leave the throne empty. Therefore it had been no surprise to her when her father came to ask her to join him for a visit to Rohan, the land of the horse masters.

While the prince and the thane went on with their diplomatic courtesies she followed them subtly into the main building where the usual big meal was served. Lothíriel always enjoy these heavy stacks of food though she never touched vine or ale. She knew herself to get at little rounder in times of festivals or feasts, because she loved the many flavours running along the inside of her mouth. Luckily she quickly lost weight again, because she enjoyed walking a lot in and outside the city.

The dinner was succeeded by music and dancing and Lothíriel immediately engaged herself to learning the simple Rohirric steps. It was much more fun than the Gondorian stiff way of moving and a lot quicker. At one point she was sailing from one side of the room to another. The fact that her partner was supposed to hold her so close didn't bother her much and she completely forgot it once the bards started playing. The smile was incapable of fading when she was thrown back and forward.

She was a bit unaccustomed to not play the part of the hostess, pouring drinks for the guests and talking about how well she and her family was doing. The outlandish men talked a great deal about horses, which she didn't mind at all. All new information she devoured like the night consumes she sun and listened unremitting to every word her dance partner spoke. There weren't many women present, but she had no desire to gain knowledge of the Rohirric way of stitching and was content discussing with the soldiers and young men from the village. She departed when her father commanded her to bed for her much needed rest. Daemyn offered to take her back to the camp at the outer walls and willingly took her hand when she asked if they could dance down the road. The moon was painting the scenery secretively blue and being in such a good mood she didn't notice the begging admiring eyes he send her. Lothíriel had not her mind set on love. Though turning nineteen soon her spirited heart had not seen its first chains of lust. The princess had been fascinated with some of the men her age living in Dol Amroth, but her strict tutor made sure Lothíriel never got to spend any time with a boy on her own. Having effortlessly attempted to outsmart the annoying coach she finally forfeited and forgot all about any lovesick sign her devotees waved at her.

"You speak Rohirric so well," he said impressed when she finished a cheerful song in the foreign language.

"When you spend all your time studying the art of diplomatic behaviour, the idiomatic part is the most interesting. I only ever cared for the hours when I practised Gondorian and Rohirric. When my father discovered I was gifted with a smooth tongue he introduced me to all the foreign languages I could ever hope to come across, and speaking fifteen idioms fluently I spend a lot of time with guests from faraway countries who doesn't know how to express them self in our tongue." He nodded comprehendingly and exploited a muddy part of the road to take her hand and gently guide her around.

"I heard many talk of how lovely you were to night," he spoke and saw surprise written in her face.

"Really? It's hard to tell with these people. They don't have the same polite mandatory remarks as we do in Dol Amroth so I am not even capable of reading their eyes and judge if they are genuine like I do it back home. The thane however was very courteous, I think." While she told him how considerable the thickset man had acted towards her through the evening they passed the city gates and headed for the tents on the field outside.

"…and the music was so animated," she finished as they stopped in front of her tent. "Yes, indeed this was a wonderful party and you were kind to take me be back safely."

"Only pleasure I can assure you Milady." His smile faded and she looked worried.

"What is the matter my friend?"

"Tomorrow we'll arrive at Edoras and I will become just another soldier to you my Princess." A cautious grin curled her lips and when he lowered his gaze from the sky where it had been lingering she quickly removed it.

"Oh you could never become just another soldier, not after your thorough guarding me. Maybe I should forget about recommending you to the captain and ask me father to promote you to become my personal protector." Her words left him stunned and speechless.

"Milady, what a great honour! I shall do my very best to prove myself worthy." He kneeled before her like a knight deeply and grabbed her hand gingerly. "I'll guard you with my life." She glanced down on him taking in the impression of the curly raven black hair covering a set of burning brown eyes. The broad shoulders signifying vigour and the unyielding bravery in his mind did not quiver as he awaited her approving touch on his brow. Until now she had only thought of him as this temporary and a bit annoying fighter meant for riding the horse she so desperately wanted to ride herself, but seeing his agreeable desire to shield her she could not help but to feel a little exceptional. Unhurriedly she placed her middle finger on his skin and whispered the binding words.

"My fortress is yours to keep, your sword mine to command."

At dawn they sat out from the village and since she and Daemyn was some of the only ones to go to bed at a reasonable hour all the others had mayor hangovers and had trouble staying seated in the saddle. Lothíriel had asked Daemyn to ride up in front to her father. The eager young man obeyed her without hesitating.

"Father?" The dark haired man turned to her not easily concealing the fact that he had a terrible headache.

"Yes child?"

"How long until we are there?" Her behind was hurting bitterly from so many days of riding and she was much exited about meeting the White Lady. The newly selected king, her brother Éomer was very likely to be as boring and righteous as her elder brother, who always pointed out her errors and reported any misdeed to their father.

"Depending on the speed, before or after lunch. I am just hoping the King of Rohan has room for us in Meduseld, for I do not care to sleep outside another night." She silently agreed with him, not sharing her opinion of the weakness he was demonstrating by this statement. She knew he was not a man that loved war or the life that came with the duty. Having heard of how the Rohirric king slept and fared among his men even in times of peace she was slightly embarrassed with Imrahil's haughtiness. Worried that these dissimilar fundamental principles of the two men might make them collide she decided to focus all her energy in getting the contract ready. Knowing her father to have a difficult temper it was possible that she would have to pay close attention to any conversation going on between the allies. But her father was a good man too, and with a big heart who was mainly concerned with the welfare of his family and his people. Brought up with the ever present knowledge of an awaiting crown he had become a stately and noble character, with the pride that was bound to follow such a title. She knew he wanted peace more than anything, because even though he was a solid warrior he wasn't a fighter by heart.

When they were so close to Edoras Lothíriel could smell the sweat of hardworking people, Imrahil halted and everybody dismounted. She was very discontent with the unnecessary pause and asked Daemyn to go hear her father what was going on. He returned shortly after with an apologetic expression.

"Your father commands you to meet him on that hilltop over there." She sighed, but was used to Imrahil's patriotic and demanding tone.

"Will you give me a hand?" He reached up for her and swung her down with an unexpected strength. She was briskly chocked, for she had not anticipated him lifting her like she was merely a puppet of straw.

"I'll be waiting patiently for your return." Since she had approved of him as a real man and warrior, he had begun speaking more freely to her, and it was pleasant for he was a smart boy.

"Thank you, my friend," she spoke softly and headed for her father in the distant.

"My dear," he greeted her with his most charming smile, which was rather efficient when bargaining, but she knew him too well to fall for it. The Prince of Dol Amroth was in general a nice man and unconditionally worshiped by his kinsmen. He had inherited the thrown from his father and was a far better leader than his precursor. Lothíriel enjoyed serving him faithfully for he rarely made mistakes when making decisions about the future and she trusted him to do his best in all aspects of his dealings. However, she did not care for the puzzling shadows round his mouth and knew that though Imrahil was no supreme warrior he was indeed a marvellous tactician.

"Yes father?" she asked, encouraging him to proceed.

"I wanted to talk to you before we reach the city," he said, a nameless plan rumouring in his blood.

"Why?" Lothíriel almost hissed, hating the suspense he created. Usually she loved surprises, but all her instincts told her that this revelation would not be of convenience to her.

"There's something I need ask of you my sweet girl, but you are not going to like it."

"I don't understand, father. What is it you'll have me do?" He searched her face before answering.

"You know how important this treaty is and I fear what will come to pass if we do not succeed. I can't use an enthusiastic and charming lady when we face the King of Rohan. What I need is my cunning and merciless daughter."

"Forgive me for saying so father, but then you should have brought Dothira instead of me then," she argued referring to her immoral cousin, who's greatest achievements was to split up several lovers and destroy numerous lives with evil gossip. "I was under the impression that this was a meeting of resolution and reconciliation. Why should I act like one of those heartless queens, who concern herself only with prosperity and not her people? I was looking forward to saluting the ruler of the Mark with eager and willing smiles, to laugh and sing with these equals and develop a friendship. I ask you once more, why should I pretend to be what I am not, vicious and arrogant?" Though Lothíriel was an excellent actress, which she had proved on various occasions by performing for guests in Dol Amroth, she hated pretence and had no desire to trick a friend to be.

"Lothíriel listen! I remember the days when war thrived between Rohan and Dor-en-Ernil, when the house of Théoden wanted nothing more than to see me dead. I will not forget, no matter what pledge was sworn in the letters we wrote each other, that Rohan is still a challenger and war could as well be the ending of this visit as peace. We must not show weakness. I am certain that the Slayer of the Witch King will stand at the side of the Horse Lord, and I will have you act no lesser." She saw a glimpse of fear from the past in his eyes and understood his reasons, but she could not apply.

"You expect me to behave like a warrior princess?" Lothíriel almost started laughing at the silly idea, but swiftly grew serious as she saw her father's strict brow. "I will not be so false! Only once I have displayed such rude behaviour and that was towards a man who had offended you grimly, saying you were a liar. But this is King Éomer of Rohan. He's not even a descendent of Théoden, the man you resented above all. I will continue to be genuine and be myself, and that is my final word."

She was angry and hoped bitterly, that Daemyn would not lose courage when she snapped at him in fury, as she turned to walk back. A sharp pain shot through her as Imrahil grabbed her hard around the wrist. Turning back towards him, he looked nothing like anything she'd ever seen. His eyes were desperately pleading her to yield and the muscles threateningly tight.

"Daughter," he roared, not comprehending that he was calling attention to their conversation. She went cold and unbreakable like polar ice and faced him defy written in her posture. No man or even a god should lay his hands upon her brittle body, for she was not only among the innocent, but among the just. What he was asking was wrong, and she had the right to walk away. Imrahil had never acted so recklessly against her before and didn't usually treat women harshly, but he was fraught. When she lifted her eyebrows in a hostile manner he realized his doing and let go immediately.

"Forgive me Lothíriel; I did not intend to harm you. Please you must understand." His men began moving anxiously trying to read their master and mistress body language. Both Lothíriel and Imrahil knew that his men were loyal to the throne, but also that though the king had their respect and love, she had their sympathy. The king did not fear his daughter to take control with the army, for she had never desired power like he did. Nevertheless had he no doubt that the soldiers would protect her with all means even if her attacker was their own lord.

"Lothíriel I beg of you, do me this favour and I will grant you," he paused and then send her a look of guarantee. "I'll grant you your utmost desire."

Her heart skipped a beat. She was very aware of the meaning of those words, having fought him too many times before about the subject and she did not believe her ears.

"You would let me choose? Discard your previous intentions of deciding my providence and allow me to pick my own husband?"

Ever since she was a child her father had made it very clear, that she would never get a saying when her groom was chosen. _A political marriage, beneficial for your country,_ they had told her. _When you are old enough a suiting man will be appointed and you will accept it_. Lothíriel was an individual of freedom and praised above many things, the right to make your own fortune. She had opposed the council of Dol Amroth without success so long, because she refused to be treated like a puppet and sold of like horse. The fact that her father was now bending to her was a temptation she could not resist.

"I forgive you dear father," she spoke honey in her voice. "If you promise to unleash me and let me fasten my own knots I will be your proud warrior queen." His happiness was apparent and he shook her hands, gratitude beaming from his smile.

"I promise my dear heart. Who knows, we might find that it will not be necessary in the end." She loved her father, and she knew that it was fear that made him ask this of her. She did not want to yield to him, but the offer was too good to be turned down, she would do it.

As she returned to Daemyn the play had already begun. She was no longer Lothíriel, but Cela, the heartless rock. She asked Daemyn to hand her another coat once she reached him, the blue airy one that looked like opaque butterfly wings. He only thought her to be dressing up for the arrival and she tried not to look him directly in the eyes, as she knew they would freeze him in an instant. Lifting her chin high, she was helped unto the horse once more and caught a glimpse of her father before Daemyn climbed up in front of her. Imrahil was worried. She knew how dearly he loved her, and did not care to ask such a callous favour from her. Still he was glad she had submitted and followed his biddings. Lothíriel full of shame from selling herself like that, but also joyful that she at last had won the right to choose her own path. The trip was near the ending, and she readied herself for a performance in the mask of the ice goddess.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: I have to apologize for the way I tend to change the point of view constantly, but hopefully you will be able to look pass it. I am not sure if it's as characteristic for this particular chapter, but you are sure to come across it at some point. As English is not my first language I probably have a couple of basic errors.

Chapter 2 - A marked man of duty

He was in a bad mood and not at all fit for the upcoming visit. It wasn't unusual that he grumbled these days scaring the innocent habitants of Meduseld, but today he was particularly nasty. Not even his sister's generous help with the preparations, which meant she was back in Edoras for the first time in two years since her marriage, made him feel better. King Éomer of Rohan was riding his stallion Firefoot rapidly across the veldt trying to drive out this unwelcome bitterness.

Truth was, he knew, that he had not felt truly happy in a very long time. After the victory against Sauron there had been a short period of tranquil intoxication. He hadn't even considered then, the great responsibility and hard work that had been placed on his shoulders, when King Théoden named him successor to the throne. Éomer wasn't ungrateful for this honour, but he was sad, because he was very aware that it wasn't supposed to have been like that. His cuisine Eotháin was meant to be king, if only he hadn't been killed so suddenly by orcs and he, Éomer, should happily have been the third marshal.

Three terrible years had passed with Éomer on the throne. Hunger and homelessness from the attacks during the war was killing his people slowly and on the top of that the southern empires were moving, threatening to once more rape the country of Rohan. The alliance with Dol Amroth and Prince Imrahil was necessary to ensure the future, although he really didn't like having the old enemy within his walls.

Éowyn had been amazing ever since she came back. The house had regained some of its former cosiness under her feminine touch and he had felt less alone. Her bulging stomach had surprised him somewhat and it occurred to him how grown up they both now were. It seemed ages since they had chattered carelessly and ridden the mark with passion and boldness. As she was now expecting her first child, which she frequently reminded him of, saying that she was his little sister and he had not even begun searching for a wife, Éowyn forced him to think about his future and for once forgetting about his people.

He knew that he had matured himself, but seeing her made it all too real. He was also stunned at how well she handled the chores, she once hated. When she left to become the wife of Faramir, the prince of Ithillien, Éomer was on his own with only the annoying know-it-all-advisers and the servants as company. He caught himself thinking, that all that emptiness had made him a bit crazy and that he would kill for a good party. The visit from Dor-en-Ernil was definably an occasion, but he had to restrain himself, considering the amount of beer he usually drank at a feast, if he wanted the friendship to hold, and at the moment, nothing seemed more important.

Éomer easily forgot time when he was riding and he was a bit chocked when he realized how far from Edoras he had come. Abruptly he turned the horse around and gave the animal a friendly kick to indicate he wanted speed. Unfortunately Firefoot, however brilliant he was, had a temper like his owner, and had currently decided that he was in a lazy mood. Therefore Éomer had to sit patiently while the stallion calmly wandered back.

"I am going to be late you stubborn ass," he mumbled. The manner in which he spoke to the horse stated how depressed he was. No Rohirric man with respect for himself, would ever curse at their beloved animals and so the guilt soon made him offer Firefoot an apple as an apology. This tribute made the horse excited to please its master and the speed increased. Usually Éomer ruled his horse with no problems, but his state of mind did not allow him to be as firm as was needed.

Still half an hour passed before Éomer saw the city and realized with horror that the guest already had arrived. He could see the foreign thin beasts being dragged to the stables and strangers in magnificent blue armours looking rather lost in the square in front of Meduseld. Firefoot sensed his nervousness and carried him fast through the gates, where his men proudly greeted him and up the main road. An anxious looking Edome, the captain of his éored, stood gazing towards the horizon hoping to spot his missing king. Éomer found it amusing that the sharp-eyed man hadn't noticed him, but remembered how much the captain cared for him, and that he used to become a bit clumsy, when he wasn't in control of his lord's whereabouts.

"Edome, my friend." He waved at the comrade and smiled when he saw the startled reaction.

"Éomer king, they're waiting in the great hall. Dear god, we thought you had forgotten." The worried friend embraced him as he reached the top of the stairs.

"How long have they been here?" He asked taking the small path towards the kitchen entrance.

"Two hours perhaps. Your sister has kept the conversation going, but you better hurry. This prince Imrahil, he is the biggest man I have ever seen. Frankly, he's quite scary, and very displeased with your absence." Éomer sent his captain a searching gaze and the man corrected himself. "Well he's about as tall as you my lord, but he is still bigger." Éomer felt his curiosity rousing and entered the house while loosening his cloak and handing it to a pawn. Edome stayed wisely behind him as he had done ever since Éomer was crowned. They were close friends and so the man knew how miserable the king had been feeling. He also knew from their days of soldiering that Éomer was not a man to be crossed when feeling down.

"I'll just wash my face and hands and then I'll join the jamboree pretending to be sophisticatedly delayed. Tell my sister that I am home, but be discrete, will you?" Edome bowed swiftly and they parted by Éomer's chamber. He dropped the red tunic as he entered the room and went for a new green one in the chest. In an attempt to wash of the smell of horse he bathed the scarred hands in the flower water on the table. He didn't care for this perfumed aroma considering he would soon return to the stables, but on this occasion he felt in need to appear majestic and that meant washing. Brushing his pants from dust and hay he stepped out in the hallway and headed for the great hall.

"My friends!" His voice was uncommonly cheery as he marched in greeting the new ally. Prince Imrahil, whom he knew only of reputation, put on a similar mask of joy as they caught each other's right wrist and patted the other's shoulder.

"At last we meet, King of Rohan." There was not a hint of suggestion in the voice, although the words spoke the message out loudly.

"And for the hold-up you must forgive me. I was hindered by the wish of arranging a faultless feast for us tonight and forgot about time." Éomer was an excellent liar and the unspoken suspicion towards his intentions was quickly erased. Both the Gondorians and the Rohirrics wanted nothing more than for this concord to succeed and a warm glow of hope made them all very eager to talk and exchange pleasantries. "I see my dear sister has already given you wine to drink? Good let us toast then." Éomer was given a goblet of his own. He looked at the foreign prince as Éowyn refilled the cup. The man was indeed immense, especially across the breast and stomach. The eyes were grey and fierce although not the look of a warrior. This was a man of authority, and like himself not happy to be contradicted. In spite of this glow of capacity his red cheeks and huge grin made him very approachable, and regardless of Éomer's doubt that they had much in common, he was now certain that a union was possible. He also sensed that Imrahil could be devious and capable of setting a scene. "For a future friendship, for the strength of unanimity and for peace," Éomer declared raising his glass in salute.

"Well said Lord Éomer. May this visit be the beginning of prosperity and protection for both of our people." Imrahil's voice was deep and roaring and Éomer congratulated himself on the decision of joining with this prince. His sister stepped between them with a lively smile. Éomer however spotted the steel stare she directed at him accusingly and returned a stubborn look.

"Be this the days to end the strife between nations and to, if not forget, then discard earlier dispute." They toasted and the captains around them cheered optimistically. With the ceremonial greetings done the soldiers began talking freely allowing the lords to speak less formally together.

"Let me introduce my daugther, Lothíriel," Imrahil spoke while trying to locate the woman among the chattering men. "I never travel without her," the prince added, "as she is brighter than any man in my counsel and dearer to my heart. She was brought up in a small village because her mother did not care for the intrigues of the court. She came to live with me however, when she turned ten, as her brilliance required better nursing from outstanding teachers."

Éomer sent Éowyn a sparkling glance. They had often made fun of the Gondorian women, when they were children, pretending that the eastern ladies were terrified of getting their hands dirty and had twisted ideas of how barbaric the Rohirrics were. Intrigued they both looked around the room trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious princess.

"Where has she gone?" Irritation whipped through his voice. Éomer turned and suddenly he saw her.

There was no doubt that this was the woman in question for she had the brow and posture of a royalty. He thought her pretty at once and allowed himself an improper stare down her slender figure. The princess was wearing a blue travelling cloak which she had not yet been deprived off and Éomer found himself ashamed of his lazy servants. Her hair was dark as the cloudy midnight sky and fastened to her head with see-through indigo ribbons so when she moved she looked like a water spirit, elegant and slow. Her skin was milk white and her eyes as green as the Rohirric grassland. He hesitated by the eyes. They seemed so open and so mysterious at the same time and it was certain that she was not just an average noble lady caring merely for sparkling dresses and animated entertainment. Her proud and strong shape reminded him of his sister, but she had something else as well. The princess was refined like the shadow of a dream and as lovingly soft as the touch of both a mother and a child. It was however her luminous smile that knocked him out. She was talking to a friend and she was laughing and smiling like none he had ever seen. The small woman wasn't a divine beauty, but the warmth radiating from the eyes and mouth made his muscular warrior legs go squashy. He had been thinking of finding himself a queen, or actually his adviser had, but as he watched this delightful little lady he could not help but to think that it was a suitable match. Éomer wouldn't mind sharing his bed with her at all. The indecorous thoughts were interrupted as Imrahil spotted the girl as well. "There she is," Imrahil barked and caught her attention by calling her name. "Lothíriel, come here."

Her facial expression changed immediately as she noticed her lord and as if she had forgotten something crucial she shook her head violently and oddly. Raising her chin again the playful eyes had gone completely numb and only arrogant pride possessed her features. Gone were the cheerful soft girl and with her his thoughts of her as a potential spouse. The transformation disturbed him brutally, because it was much too unexpected and too absolute. No suggestion of gentleness could be found in her expression and the cold scent of wintriness made him shudder briefly.

Éomer found himself scared of the tiny woman he had only just eyed and her paranormal alteration into stone. The beauty that had so suddenly turned to malice was not a sight he had witnessed before and so the unfamiliarity made him tense. It took great effort to frighten the lord of horses and he had not feared anything since he was a kid who didn't care for the dark. Éomer tried hard to convince himself that he had imagined the first smiles and that she was just a harmless but conceited lady, only he failed and as she approached she caught his eyes and something obscure traced through them. The green had vanished like the colour of a fading leaf, replaced by a dust grey.

"Dear princess," he heard Éowyn speak. "It's a pleasure to receive such a stunning lady in Meduseld; I must admit your reputation is understated." He knew that his sister appreciated harshness and she would therefore think only good of the marble eyes. Lothíriel curtsied in polite gratitude. He stepped forward his heart beating wildly and took a bow.

"Lady Lothíriel," was all he managed to say as he kissed the back of her hand causing a fuming Éowyn to accidentally push his shoulder hard.

"And how do you judge Rohan, princess?" His sister asked determined to get along with the witchy girl.

"I have only been here a short time, Lady Éowyn, so you must forgive me for propounding the appraisement." It was not a direct insult not to instantly list the wonderful aspects of the country, but it certainly wasn't gracious either. His sister however clapped her hands like she had just met her soul mate and answered:

"Right you are my friend. I do hope you'll find the stay eventful and agreeable milady and accept me in time as your sister, rather than just an ally."

"Surely time will work at our advantage," Lothíriel spoke, her accurate tongue proving to him that she was not illiterate. The conversation turned to education as Éowyn questioned the princess about the books she enjoyed reading. Lady Lothíriel's responds was concise but never a hindrance for the discussion, quite the contrary in fact. She spoke Rohirric as if she was born in the mark and only a soft strange lilt was traceable in her pronunciation. He kept surveying her, looking for signs that the superiority was actually a mask, but apart from her short glances in his direction he found nothing. He felt uncomfortable near her and wanted predominantly to escape into the stable. Imrahil asked about the schooling of the young in Rohan and Éowyn started telling them about the most important skills of the Mark. She took a sip of her none alcoholic cider before continuing. The princess didn't touch her drink at all. Éomer lost focus of the chattering going on using all his attention attempting to figure out the young black girl and was only awaken when Éowyn mentioned the horses.

"Yes it is common for every Rohirric to know how to handle horses. They late kids are often teased by their lack of ability to ride and we celebrate those who learn the fastest."

"Do we get to see these famous creatures?" Lothíriel enquired and he was surprised to see that her eyes now had an allusion of green. Excited by her mystery he jumped in.

"If you wish to we will even let you ride them. They're very special and are only ever ridden by royalties or nobles." Amused he saw that she went agitated with eagerness and the facade slowly perished.

"It's not for you to care about my dear," the Imrahil said and Éomer watched sadly as the numb expression returned.

"Why don't we go and have a ride before dinner?" his sister invited and a keen mood spread throughout the room. He watched his men start to tell the legend of the splendid horses of Rohan and decided that it was an excellent proposal.

"Yes I think a ride would do us all some good, if you are not too tired from the journey?" Imrahil had heard the tales and looked enthusiastic.

"I could never refuse such an offer my friends, lead the way." There were a couple of chaotic moments while everyone found their cloaks and walked out on the square in front of the house. He was so happy to flee the crowded room and the spooky foreign princess that he almost ran to the stables. Oh how he hated big crowds he remembered while breathing in the fresh air. Only when surrounded by his éored he didn't hate the mob, because they were all friends to him and listened if he ordered silence.

The bad mood hadn't disappeared, and had only temporarily been forgotten in the presence of the strange girl to whom he had decided not to talk any more than necessary. If she made him nervous then she was not what he should focus on in these vital days. Surely she had to have some wizard blood in the veins for she was puzzling like Saruman the White had been. With a sigh of relief he entered Firefoot's box and started whispering low words to the friendly creature. They had become closer these last years, where Éomer had no one else to talk to and the stallion, which was extremely jealous, had loved the undivided attention. It now felt its master's anxiety and poked him lovingly on the shoulder.

"They're beautiful, simply stunning," Imrahil exclaimed as Éowyn guided him through the archway.

"I trust you are familiar with saddling a horse yourself my Lord?" she said sounding very proud.

"Of cause, just show me the beast," he boasted and clapped his hands together indicating his readiness. She stopped at a young brown steed that looked bored and laid-back.

"I think Théo here will fit you just fine. He's a brilliant runner, although he doesn't look like it and he's very easy to control." Imrahil nodded satisfied and began examining the animal thoroughly. Éomer could nothing but respected the prince for being so methodical and professional in his inspection and was pleased to see the content and astonished look on the Gondorian's face.

"In perfect shape and such a handsome pelt," the prince stated looking rather impressed and stroking the mane.

"We take good care of our heritage," Éomer answered with distinction, leaving no doubt to anyone that this was the true treasure of Rohan, not to be taken for any less than a chamber full of riches.

"I can see."

"Where did your daughter go?" his sister asked searching the people walking back and forth in the passage.

"She can't ride," he said like it was nothing and he did not notice how both of the eorlingas drew in their breath heavily.

"Has she not bothered learning?" His sister enquired obviously disappointed in her new friend.

"Quite the opposite, actually. I have been fighting with her for years keeping her from taking on the dangerous task. She is much too fragile for such conduct." He saw his sister who looked as if someone had slapped her in the head with a fish. He was appalled himself and thought that her behaviour now was partly understandable with an overprotective Imrahil like that. "I asked her to stay in the house and work on her embroidery." Éowyn had great difficulty keeping a straight face and made a run for her mare trying to occupy her mind with another activity in order not to start a quarrel on the first day. Fortunately prince Imrahil seamed devoted to Théo and detected nothing.

Most of the men had mounted their borrowed horses and sat waiting in the courtyard. Éomer felt at home as always when sitting on Firefoot and his sister was adjusting her saddle beside him. Prince Imrahil still hadn't left the stables so Éowyn, with a very decisive brow, turned to him and whispered quietly:

"I must speak to you," she muttered steering her mare up beside him.

"You need not ask my permission to question me Éowyn," he scowled and looked to the sky with gloomy eyes at the thought of having to be charming and inviting all week.

She gesticulated wildly in agitation trying to focus him. "See this is exactly the attitude alarming me. You're not here with your mind my brother and therefore you neglect the Gondorians. You have got to pull yourself together." Trying to shield their clash from the soldiers, who was not to be mistaken for less eager to run with gossip than any woman with too much time on her hands, Éowyn drew him away from the growing mob. "I know that you have been disheartened lately," she hesitated and reached for his hand to grant a rare sympathetic touch, "but it's decisive that you don't offend our new friends." He felt ambushed by her sudden corrections.

"I am doing the best I can manage these days sister. Don't be as foolish as to push me further," he warned feeling his renowned temper rising. She rolled her eyes at his thickness of head and placed both hands on her hips like a mother leaving the reins loose in front of her.

"If you don't lighten up and start showing some interest in your guests they're going to depart. Don't let your depressive tendencies clog the way to the treaty, and as for your behaviour towards Princess Lothíriel." She rolled her bluish eyes with a fatigue attitude and he was briefly amused as she now resembled a strict wife, a resemblance she would have spat at in her younger years. His hilarity wore of as she sent in a wicked blow. "I am sorry to inform you that you are reminding me of our dear uncle _when_ he was under the influence of Saruman. No determination and no light for those who dwell in malevolence though you are expected to stand radiating. You have done well since the war ended, but I fear grief and your, on the surface mended, scars are finally catching up with you as I had hoped they never would. Brother, I ask you not to fall just yet." This slur made him jerk his head away from her in a stubborn fashion meant to express he's anguish, but she grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at her. "I am not jesting brother," she added in a louder whisper, "at least be the host they are expecting for just three days and then you can excuse yourself with some lie about orcs at the borders." He searched her face for any trace of sarcasm, but found none.

"Would you take care of Rohan for me if I left for a time?" he queried baffled feeling partly guilty do to his lack of enthusiasm and partly relieved at the thought of escaping all the grave weight of his burden if only for a week.

"I would, but I'll consider you undeserving of your title if you accept my offer. You're a king now brother and I am not your queen to fix things when you face a sudden need to mend wound of the past in unsuitable solitude. You have an obligation and you have managed so well up until now. Are you going to fail in the presence of a former enemy? Will you ridicule yourself in front of that stately Princess whom no doubt has a great saying in her father's decision to reconcile with Rohan?" He was building up a good portion of anger at her accusations, but as always that didn't prevent her from mocking him further. As she continued her allegations she only lowered her voice even more until he practically had to read her rapid lips that, in spite of the missing sound, were very clear in their intentions. With a reluctant sigh of agreement he admitted that Éowyn was in fact right and as she pointed out, this could be the beginning of a brighter future for both countries.

"I apologise for my imprudent conduct, dear sister." He met her with a pair of eyes that read his misery, but she did not display any compassion, though an urging posture begged him to listen to her advice.

"I wish not to upset you, but please put a smile on your face and as a minimum bow to the Princess who must feel terribly unwelcome with your cold performance towards her." Éomer protested as she mentioned the lady once more, stating his reasons for the freezing treatment.

"Sister that girl is not as dignified as you picture her." Éowyn folded her brow sceptically at her brother's sudden defence. "I saw her before she was introduced and she was alive and laughing."

"She was very much alive when I met her as well, so save your nonsense," she cut him off brutally not wanting to hear anything bad about the new princess in case anyone overheard their conversation.

"Sister, don't interrupt," he growled irritated. "The moment Imrahil called upon her she amended like a witch and became stone." She giggled feverishly at the description and he slapped her in disturbance.

"Witches are neither as beautiful nor as well-mannered as she, you stupid boar," she answered ignoring his disturbed expression.

"But Éowyn, if you had witnessed the alteration you would have been as bothered as I. It was inhumanly." His tone of voice finally reached her and she squeezed her eyes together in disbelieve.

"You look really distressed. I must confess I have seen no signs of your claim, but I trust for you to not yet have lost your mind completely. I am almost certain though that she is just has some elf blood running in her veins which makes her appear different. I will not spy, but I might talk to her without Imrahil nearby." He immediately shook his head at her suggestion.

"I will act civil, but have nothing more to do with her beside the necessary contact." His sister unexpectedly grinned cheekily as she lifted a daring eye brow.

"You're afraid of her? I can't believe it; the great warrior, who came to aid when Gondor called, is frightened by a girl who has not yet seen her twentieth summer." When he didn't smile at her teasing she went grave and tipped her head to the left. "I never knew anyone who could affect you so deeply at the very first meeting. She must have done something bizarre for you to become so awfully bewitched." He didn't answer and she surveyed him for a long moment. "Don't worry about her brother. I am sure she won't harm you. Just keep a certain distance." The last remark was served with a touch of irony that made him dig in his heels so Firefoot sat off and away from any more of her speculations.

"Ah Éomer friend, I see you are as eager as I to ride," Imrahil yelled as he exited the stables on his appointed horse waving energized. Éomer straightened out his back and put on a cheerful triumphant mask to cover his desolation.

"Indeed, let's make haste. I should hate to be late for the feast I have planned," he called in return and the prince laughed heartedly.

"That must not be allowed to happen. Especially if that means your famous brew will be wasted on long fingered servants instead," he humoured much to Éomer's dismay, as he always encouraged his personnel to not go home thirsty. He signalled Edome to blow the horn and the marshal obeyed instantly. In a thunder of hooves they galloped down the main street sending clouds of brown dust high up in the air. Out of sheer habit he turned in the saddle as to farewell the beloved city. Unexpectedly on the terrace of Meduseld stood the pale blue shape of the Princess Lothíriel, whom in her loneliness looked almost approachable. He wondered why Imrahil considered a so attentive woman for fragile, but then again glass and ice easily splintered. Her face was a blur do to the bumpy ride but he read her posture and found much to his surprise that the shoulders hung low as if pressured by sadness and the arm who aimed a peaceful goodbye at the party was remarkably limb as if the ice had melted away once more.


	3. Chapter 3

Authors note: In this chapter I have added an extra child to Imrahil. Lothíriel has, in my story, a little sister.

Chapter 3 - Settling in

As they rode off for unknown adventure an unmistakably sigh of disappointment combined with relief escaped her. She was mad as hell that her father had so carelessly rejected her going to see the horses when she had been talking of nothing else ever since she learned of their trip to Rohan. "Such an uncommonly unkind gesture," she muttered feeling terribly alone. At least it gave an opportunity to rest from the acting. So far none of her huge expectations had managed to come true except of course for the inspiring White Lady.

Éowyn the Slayer of the Witch King was most certainly both a proud and agreeable royalty and a firm strong woman. Although in the disguise of an impeccable princess she found herself most challenged in keeping up the facade when facing Lady Éowyn, who radiated with victory even now.

Lothíriel wanted nothing more than go talk to her and get to know her, but as her father had instructed she stayed out of sight until the king arrived, so they were equally matched in people being sophisticatedly missing. When the king himself had failed to meet them at the arrival Éowyn had not blushed one bit in awkwardness such as Lothíriel no doubt would have done. Being nothing but polite and witty she had managed to safe her brother from total humiliation.

Imrahil was so blissfully naive as to believe Lord Éomer's story, but she knew better. Having seen his silhouette in the distance as they went up the stairs to the house and noticed the suspicious and unusual smell of flowers from the horse king had convinced her that he had simply been careless.

Truth was; she was in no position to scorn him for his neglect as she herself had ventured out at some very inappropriate times when her father was the host of important political people, such as the unfortunate episode with King Elessar and his companions.

Still, though often being critical instead of being a boneless yes-sayer, she had never been as rude as to greet any man or female with such indifference and coldness as he had shown her. As a lady it was in order not to smile tartly like a silly little girl and so she had acted on this conviction. Had she not been masked with this stupid role of dignity and supremacy she would however, have behaved just as that inapt, silly, little girl for she was so full of anticipation when she met the king that was said to be the most fearsome warrior in all of Arda.

Disappointment now ruled her heart as the meeting had offered her no release. The king had not looked as golden or as powerful as her father's men had described him, but rather dark and tired. He had looked at her father with such hope, but hardly turned his eyes to her, whether it was that he thought very little of such an apparently spoiled princess from the South or that he simply was rude, she could not tell.

She considered him attractive though, no doubt. He was not a man she would want to marry by far, but he did have some physical assets that she thought attractive.

He had such broad shoulders as if meant to carry the fate of life upon them, which is indeed very suiting for a king. The blue eyes had been so strikingly intense, even in spite of the missing fire within them and his tendency to lower them in solicitous loss of focus. He had dark blond slightly curly hair and the fringe had been combed back and fastened with a leather string as according to tradition among the Rohirric men. The king was almost a head taller than she and seemed so big in comparison that she did hold him in some regard as his size alone could bring enemies to tremble. He was not a man she would hope to see in the opposition when going into battle and she reckoned that even orc scum would have to yield for this solid rock of a warrior.

She knew that he was deeply loved by his people as he was admired by other nations, and it saddened her to find him in such a weak condition, with no resemblance in spirit to the myth he wore. It had been obvious how worn-out he was of the rebuilding of the land and she came to think that this particular king was perhaps more suited for either, open war, where he could shine, or peace and harmony, for he seemed so greatly troubled with the suffering of the survivors.

The war of the ring was written all over his body and face, because although he was fairly young still approaching his thirty-second winter, a fine irregular pattern of white scars spread upon his skin like dust upon a sleeping bear. Deciding that she probably shouldn't spend too much time with him to prevent herself from attacking him with words of antipathy she chose to focus on his sister instead.

She stood gazing towards the riders in the horizon a long time after they had vanished, just thinking of the encounter with these strange eorlingas and admiring the capital. The city below wasn't nearly as big as the capital of Dor-en-Ernil. Furthermore it was made primarily from wood and not cautiously carved stones. The people seemed undisturbed by the foreign visitors and carried on with their simple daily lives and businesses. She saw that Rohan was marked more deeply from the recent hostilities than her own country and her heart ached from the sight.

She spotted a dirty and poorly-dressed child crying helplessly in the mud. When no one came to aid she didn't have the stomach to turn her back on it and just retreat to the impressive residence of the king. Hurrying down to the toddler she unwillingly drew a sudden attention to herself. The hardworking women grinding grain to flour or dealing with the wild catch of the day, stopped abruptly to watch the exquisitely dressed princess sail across the soil and bow down to the apparently abandoned child.

"Hello little friend," she whispered with a playing tuneful voice and reaching out to remove the hair irritating its eyes. "Why are you so sad my sweet?" The sobs slowly wore off as she took up the infant not caring if her dress got smothered.

"I wonder what your name is, you pretty one." The small youngster looked at her with big eyes and seemed too surprised to be able to speak.

Lothíriel wasn't that used to dealing with children, but when faced with such a situation she let her compassion steer her demeanour and it always worked out well for some reason. "Will you tell me your name?" Lothíriel tried persuading her. Drying her tears with the back of her hand the little one mumbled blushing;

"It's Brenna."

"Really?" Lothíriel exclaimed holding her free hand to her mouth in surprise. "Well that's a very pretty name, Brenna. Do you know that it means princess?"

The muddy girl shook her head, eyes big with amazement at the kind woman holding her. "Why are you so sad little princess?"

Lothíriel caressed the red cheek with a finger feeling quite like a big sister again. She had three elder brothers and one little sister at home. The sister, Amlin, was also one of her dearest friends, as only three years parted them, and they had been taught together. Amlin didn't care for travelling so she had never even seen the capital of Dor-en-Ernil while Lothíriel went all around with their father. Amlin had stayed with their mother in the village in the mountains. Wanting children herself Lothíriel didn't mind spending some of her time on the abandoned and her warm smile made Brenna surrender.

"I can't find mi mom." She started tearing up again and Lothíriel schussed her softly rocking her soothingly in the embrace.

"Well then we better go look for her, right?" Brenna nodded slowly enchanted by the glossy see-trough ribbons in the mysterious saviour's hair. "You like these?" Lothíriel asked waving the blue band and when the girl nodded again she loosened the fabric letting the hair fall down completely and handing it to the child. "This is a gift for you, little princess. You may use it as you please."

While Brenna mesmerized received the present Lothíriel looked around for someone to ask about the mother, but before she had taken even one step a chocked woman cried at her from the terrace above.

"Milady where on earth do you think you're going?!"

Turning around she saw an obese short woman come running down the stairs looking terribly distressed. She was dressed as the rest of the servants in Meduseld's household and although Lothíriel had not yet been introduced to her, she had a feeling that this woman was very conscientious and that she could be both a plague and an angel. In spite of her kind face Lothíriel didn't care for the appalled tone of voice. "Oh now your clothes are all filthy."

"May I be so bold as to ask who you are?" Lothíriel felt like her mother had joined them in Edoras as the chaperone began tucking out her skirt to see how bad the spots were.

"I am Ermintrude, your appointed lady-in-waiting while you're here as your father has not provided you with any one himself. We will do all in our power to provide you with the same standard of service that you must be used to." She glanced sceptically up and down the woman, who was much older than the maidens who took care of her back home. In fact there were even silver strips in the reddish hair and wrinkles under the eyes. But then again she wasn't use to getting much help as she usually insisted on doing things herself, including dressing up and down and decide which gown she wanted today. "I must ask you to come with me so we can get you into some clean clothes." Ermintrude had a desperate pair of eyes that could make anyone nervous, but Lothíriel decided to take charge of her own dealings starting with the girl in her arms.

"Actually I don't mind a little dirt. It's not like it ever killed anyone and I have just promised to find someone for this little pearl right here and I am sure that both my father and your master will forgive me at some point." It took a little while for the message to sink in but then the maid breathed out in relief and her meaty shoulder sank several inches.

"Forgive me milady. I thought you wanted the utmost attention to your clothing as you are used to in Dol Amroth, but it pleases me to hear that the princess is much like our own white lady." The relaxed smile on her Ermintrude's face made Lothíriel giggle silently.

"Well I suppose we Gondorian women have quite a reputation here. I assure you a great many princesses where I come from are awfully determined to be everlastingly untainted, but really I am quite ordinary and there's no point in cleaning if I am going to get dirty later anyway. Can you perhaps help me place this little girl in the right hands?" The old woman reached out and took the child from Lothíriel with a firm grip that would not be denied.

"I will deal with her milady, but I still urge you to return to the house. People are waiting for her Majesty to settle into her room and a lot of the ladies are so excited to meet you." Throwing a last questionable glance at Brenna she smiled reassuringly and took a bow as to show her submission.

"Very well Ermintrude, I shall return, but I will be checking in on you my friend," she added pointing at Brenna with a cheeky grin. "So until we meet again your Highness," Lothíriel stated and gave an elegant wave, "tell your mother I send my greetings."

The girl got hiccups, but made an endearing imitation of the princess' gesture before Ermintrude started walking in the opposite direction. Lothíriel hesitated and noticed in the meantime that almost everybody was starring at her. With a polite nod she turned and climbed the stairs.

At the terrace she waited and followed the chaperones path through the streets until she finally stopped at a house from whence a joyful mother emerged hugging the daughter tight. With satisfaction Lothíriel went inside into the great hall where a young woman stood expecting her. She looked very nervous and completely different than Ermintrude and Lothíriel wished that she could take pity on her, but she had already blown her cover once when she chose to help the girl. Upheld by duty she gave a courteous nod and the girl reflected the salutation.

"Welcome once again to Meduseld mistress, I am Theldy. Please follow me to your chambers." A smile was to indicate Lothíriel's gratification as she floated over the floor lifting her skirts because the ground was somewhat sordid. None of them spoke as the maiden guided her into the corridors.

The room was bigger than the one she had at home, although sparsely furnished. A huge wooden bed was placed in the centre of the chamber and draped with dusty green sheets. It had been cleaned recently she could tell by the florid smell, but as they had missed a couple of rather large spider webs, she reckoned it had been a while since anyone had used it. A bowl stood on a small table in which there was water for cleansing. Theldy walked over to Lothíriel's chests that had been brought there in advance. Handing her the key, Lothíriel slowly paced the room getting familiar with the new surroundings. The maid-in-waiting started unpacking for her, putting all the dresses and jewels in a great cabinet by the western wall. Small gasps gave away Theldy's admiration as she uncovered one sparkling masterpiece after the other.

Her father had insisted on her bringing all her most exquisite clothing which of course had been an absolute waste. The ridermark was not a place to wear silk shoes or valuable rare diamonds. In Rohan real women were adapted to the rough environment and was not so impractical as to wear such refined garments that would go dirty faster than King Éomer could mount a horse. Also the females Lothíriel had encountered until now had a remarkable simple beauty that blossomed on the bare rock.

With that in mind, Lothíriel had been so cautious as to bring ordinary clothes, including pants if she as planned could convince someone to take her riding.

"I have never seen such splendour milady. Oh how you must look stunning when dressed in all your golden harness." Flattered she drove herself to confide to the young girl who probably hadn't even had her first bleeding yet.

"Well I suppose they're all very impressive, but I don't fancy wearing them too often." Theldy looked overwhelmed.

"Why in the name of ëthendil not? If I were a princess I would wear these every day." She swept her hands over the collection of colourful gowns her eyes lit like candles in Yule times.

"Most of them are terribly uncomfortable, especially that one," Lothíriel added referring to the pearl embroidered corset the maiden was stroking softly. "I prefer a pair of cotton trousers and a woollen shirt to go with it. But as a princess I am expected to look a little more imposing than that. I just wished my tailors for once could make me a frock in which I can actually breathe. You've probably heard that truly urbane women tend to pass out when they get frightened or excited, and it's no lie. The reason is that dreadful attire that allows none to neither sing nor cry."

In the attempt to down glorify her clothes she realized that Theldy was instead discouraged as the dreams started to perish. "But it is kind of nice to stroll into a room and with one elegant bow have everybody's eyes on you," she announced in comfort although this in Lothíriel's case was a lie.

She detested the feeling of being the attention of the party when it was caused by her appearance, but the statement lit the sparkle in the maid's eyes once more. "Maybe," she proposed, "you could actually do me a favour." The girl didn't notice her cunning smile as she turned to her. "I don't really know what I should choose to wear tonight and since there's no mirror in here I was thinking that I could dress you up and see what looks good. I mean you're almost as tall as me and we can just use some scarves to stuff you where the dress is too big."

Theldy looked as if she had just been given her first horse.

The hours past them by very quickly while both girls tried to keep their laughter under control. Theldy was exhausted as she took off the eighteenth dress and the beautiful jewellery belonging to it. Lothíriel was aching from laughter as they had been dancing around the room singing an old festive melody that was known by both Rohirrics and Gondorian.

"I think the orange one is prettier than the red," Theldy concluded holding up the two of her favourites up in the air. Lothíriel sat on the bed, her hair just as messy as Theldy's from trying on the gowns.

"I never looked well in orange," she warned. "I am simply too pale."

"Maybe you should get out in the sun more then. I wasn't born like this you know."

She motioned her brown skin, indicating that she was used to working under the sun. Lothíriel wasn't offended by the comment as the girl was very serious when speaking and truly believed her new mistress to be ignorant of the sun's effect.

"I shall sincerely deem your suggestion," Lothíriel promised dragging her feet up underneath her. "Still I am not wearing the orange one today." Theldy put it into the closet and looked on the remaining ones.

"Why did you bring so many of that colour then?" the girl questioned. She had lost her anxiety and was now only calm in Lothíriel's presence.

"I have one for each year I have lived. It's a tradition in Gondor to have a festival of music after solstice where all the bards and poets of the land gather to celebrate the summer and to show off their abilities. All the women dress in orange as a symbol of the fading sun and we give flowers to the men that ask us to dance. Most women just redecorate their dresses, but my father insists on forcing another horror on me every time." Theldy giggled in a girlish manner.

"Sounds like a nice tradition though," she demanded her eyes turning dreamy. Lothíriel clapped her hands to bring her back.

"We still haven't decided which one I should put on." The maid hesitated then picked up two examples.

"There really are only two right choices on an evening like this. Either you represent Dol Amroth or you sympathize with Rohan, blue or green." Lothíriel was impressed and straightened her brow in appreciation.

"I never would have guessed that you were a diplomat." The lady-in-waiting blushed quietly at the praise. "My father will want me to stand strong tonight so I better wear a blue one. I know! In that trunk there's a light blue silk tube with printed white birds on it. I always liked it and white are the colour of peace in our land." The girl immediately dived into the luggage trying to unearth the exact piece of clothing. When she dug it out Lothíriel rose from the bed and snatched her jewellery box. "I have some sea pearls with a bluish tint that would suit it well."

"Perfect. You find them and I go ready your bath."

She sat with her eyes shut still damp from her wash while Theldy combed her thoroughly. If Lothíriel had been doubtful to whether Theldy was fit for a chaperon she now was only happy that this exact girl had been appointed her. The young hands treated her with such tenderness, reminding her of a mother and slowly lulling her into sleep. She hardly noticed the knockings on the door even though the fierce thumping should have warned her who was coming.

"My dear, where have you been? We returned half an hour ago and you didn't come to join us. Not very ladylike, my girl." Both surprised that they hadn't noticed the return, considering that the windows faced South like the front terrace, they didn't answer and Imrahil continued. "The ride was absolutely amazing. Both Lord Éomer and his sister are great people and leaders. I am positive that we will succeed in our union..."

"Wonderful I have done my job then? I have kept my part of our agreement?" Lothíriel interrupted. Theldy remained silent, but Lothíriel felt her hands growing tense from listening.

"No dear, you can't stop just now when everything is working out so perfect. I talked to lady Éowyn and she adores you, called you a lady of mammon, marble and iron, a woman after her mind." Lothíriel raised very suddenly a vertical line forming between her eyes.

"You can't be serious. There's no need!" He blew up enlarging his already massive size, but used to arguing with him Lothíriel didn't back down. "I am already having difficulties keeping a straight face. What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to emphasize the benefits of our nation, spell out our glories culture and I want you to sing." She felt wronged and walked towards him not caring that Theldy's painstaking work was now ruined.

"Father, I beg you to forget this. I am very much aware of your doubt about this newly reversed enemy, but you said yourself that he needs us as much as we need him. Let me be genuine again and charm them like I normally do." He held his hands up in refusal.

"I tell you no. I love you Lothíriel, but you are here for a reason other than for your own education, to help me ensure esteem from the Rohirrics and you haven't for filled your assignment. We have been here only few hours and I expect you to continue your bright performance and not joke around with the servants."

He sent Theldy a sharp look while raising his voice to an even higher level. "Tonight you will act like a queen in love with your own country, not your hosts'." He turned and slammed the door provocatively. Lothíriel lowered her shoulders and sniffed in spitefulness.

"I suppose you would like to hear the motive for this quarrel," she scowled returning to the chair she had been occupying before with as much distinction as possible. "I'll explain if you promise me to keep it to yourself. " Theldy kneeled in front of her with a loyal smile.

"I wouldn't have told anyone even if you hadn't asked me," she whispered and blinked in confidence.

Lothíriel felt happy and bitter at the same time. This was how people in general reacted to her, when she was being herself. They trusted her with anything. She was however upset that Imrahil never seemed to notice it and saw the earnings of this gift.

Putting her hands on Theldy's she relived the conversation between her and the father before the arrival, pointing out her reason to make such a deal.

"That is so romantic the way you compromise yourself to achieve the right to true love." Having not thought of it that way, she was more than relieved that her new friend understood and commiserated.

"Thank you for supporting me, Theldy."

"You can count on me princess. This has been such an experience, trying on gowns I could only dream of; trust me to take good care of you the coming week." Lothíriel grinned friendly at the girl opening her arms as to show her good faith.

She didn't leave her room until the feast was served and when her father came once more to complain she just told him she was playing hard to get, which made him proud right away.

"That is the spirit," he barked pleased and disappeared.

Theldy helped her get ready and ran to the great hall once in a while to see how things were coming. As the sun fell behind the mountains in the west she finished with her mistress' hair and stood back admiring her toil.

"You look perfect milady," she sighed drying off some sweat from her forehead and looking rather tired.

Two swift knocks on the door made the young girl jump slightly and then run to open. Lothíriel felt as always uncomfortable with moving at all after applying the makeup and the powder in fear that it might fall of. The necklace and the earrings were fortunately light and the black curls held with just the right amount of needles to prevent it from collapsing. She had been looking out the window for the last thirty minutes bewitched by the scenery as the Mark turned lilac in the sunset.

"He says he's milady's personal guard, but he seemed so young I thought I better ask you first," the girl breathed silently.

"Let him in," Lothíriel ordered sounding colder than she intended. She spun towards Daemyn as he entered and sniggered. "My dear Daemyn, you look like you've seen a ghost." He had to rub his eyes and then winked apologetic.

"It's your beauty that blinds me," he mouthed with only a sparse sound leaving his throat. Lothíriel blushed as it was appropriate and walked fast towards him with the meek steps the dress allowed.

"I take it you're here to bring me to the feast?" She queried with her most smooth tone of voice.

"Yes, they're all waiting for you my Princess," he established taking a bow.

"Good." Lothíriel strolled out the door grabbing Daemyn's hooked arm on the way.

She looked just right. Painted like a porcelain doll and light as an elf she was a harmonious combination of soft and firm. The black curls were fastened to her head with small pearls to match the rest of the trinkets and the simple blue fabric was tight across her chest and looser from the waist and down, but not much. The dress was cut open in the front from the bottom to her knees revealing layers of white see-trough textile. She was wearing white shoes as well, but with blue stitches in a twisted pattern. Daemyn appeared taller as they approached the merry voices and looked more like the man he was hoping to become than the boyhood he was leaving. The great hall was illuminated with torches and by the hearth in the middle of the room. Tables formed a horseshoe with four impressive thrones in the middle waiting for the royals to be seated. There were many new faces in the crowd, probably nobilities from Rohan arriving later than the Gondorians, but apparently just as interested in drinking. She saw her father chatting with Lord Éomer and his sister by the fire, and servants were handing them goblets with wine or ale. She stopped when she was free of the columns along the flanks and waited to be called. People were dressed up in their finest but none of the women looked nearly as bright as Lothíriel in their frocks made from wool, perhaps with the exception of Éowyn who wore a white gown as according to her title. Slowly the mob grew silent as they noticed her and began a discourteous glare up and down her outfit. The Gondorian captains smiled reassuringly at her, always proud of their princess and ready to stand by her. She recognized both Margorth and Wilftrin among them, good men and excellent warriors, who had never once acted badly towards her and never refused a good debate. Remembering her father's instructions she didn't smile even though she was tempted do to her embarrassment from their starring. Finally the herald discovered her and tapped his stick in the floor three times demanding peace.

"The Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," he called making the rest of the inattentive look upon her. She curtsied with the usual required grace while the King of Rohan came to take her hand as it was custom.

"Milady, it's a miracle to find such an entreating youth within our humble house. You're most welcome to join the party and you'll sit on my right at the dinner table." His renewed civility made her curious and she moved with all the seemliness of a queen. Prince Imrahil and Éowyn repeated the performance and both couples went to find their seats. The other guests settled down too and Lord Éomer raised his goblet in salute.

"Let us dine and drink together tonight as a testimony to our alliance and let's dance and sing and forget all about the past. To peace," he declared and the seated echoed his last words and drank eagerly. Lothíriel was a bit poignant that she only sat next to the foreign king and not Imrahil or the White Lady. Servants carried in the food on huge golden plates and she went a bit greedy at the sight.

"What do you feel like eating milady," the king asked and she was surprised to hear a note of difficulty in his voice like it was hard for him to be polite. She had believed a lord to be used to the conduct of well-mannered people. Maybe he was nervous.

"I am not sure, the potatoes look decent I suppose," she answered with an attitude like she was none too impressed.

"Yes, they're tasteful," he agreed sounding more neutral now. She began scooping up food in a worthy speed not sending him even one look of appreciation.

They both devoted themselves to the meal not chatting like Imrahil and Éowyn, who was comparing their different relations with Minas Tirith and Gondor's association with Dol Amroth. Unfortunately she was unable to participate as the sounds of eating and talking people from other parts of the table confused her. Éomer didn't contribute either, having his nose buried in his serving dish and most likely unable to as he knew nothing of the subject. The man on her right was one of the Rohirric marshals whom on this occasion had decided to get immensely drunk. She knew he wasn't the second-in-command that was the fellow they called Edome, because she had greeted him when they first arrived, but she couldn't see the second marshal anywhere. Imrahil had decided to leave his captain of the land at home to protect the city if he should fall on the journey. Instead she eyed the carvings on the ceiling and the walls which she hadn't noticed before. Some of them were painted gold and she especially admired the big sun above the doors, leading out on the terrace, in the end of the hall.

"The traders in Dol Amroth have told me all about the magnificent carvings of your hall. I did not expect them to be this impressing"

"Have they?" Éomer signalled to a young boy to refill his empty goblet.

"Yes, they spoke only with admiration and they are travellers who have seen many things worthy of storytelling." Princess Lothíriel added, ignoring his curt reply. "And your age-old tapestries that depicts the most famous moments of the history of Rohan."

"Indeed?"

Avoiding any further efforts to communicate, Éomer quickly got on his feet sending out a toast. The sound of furniture scuffing along the stone floor resounded as the éored rose as well. "For the heroes that passed to the other side and in the process made the survival of our nation possible." Éomer felt a sting in the heart as he touched one of the topics that always made him ache. He knew nothing worse than to think of all the good blood that had been spilt and he even momentarily cursed Éowyn for being present as their uncle died, when he was not.

"For the heroes!" his riders repeated steadfastly.

He downed his drink in one go and then sat down again. Lothíriel was the only foreigner to toast with them, and he looked at her in surprise as they sat down simultaneously. It was tradition to thank the ancestors and the fallen for a meal in Rohan and it had nothing to do with the visit from Dol Amroth. Surely she knew that?

Lothíriel sat still not eating much but content as she felt he was overwhelmed by her joining in the ceremonial toast for the past ones. She actually had begun enjoying provoking him in a most subtle way that could not be attacked. She did however not say another thing until the plates were removed from the table and replaced with dessert.

"Well it seems your _long_ awaited feast did work out anyway," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. He caught the tone of voice immediately and turned in the chair.

"What do you mean? Was the success unexpected to you?" She sent him a measuring glance and sipped from her glass of water.

"Considering your delay had nothing to do with the planning of the feast I had my doubts."

Lothíriel knew how tartly a comment she had just slung in his face and sat anticipating his responds with invisible amusement. Would the great king choose to lie or would he apologize? Éomer froze at her accusation and she saw that also her father suddenly had twisted more towards them as to follow the conversation. It was dangerous to play with this fire, but she wanted him to know that she wasn't just any maiden to suit the arm of a selfish gentleman.

The king looked her in the eyes for the first time since their first meeting. Then he had looked almost scared, but now he was obviously struggling with a temper that she hadn't expected to find in him.

"What exactly are you implying Princess?" he questioned with a growling deep voice. In his head Éomer thought her bright to have seen through his lie. Leaning against him discretely and making her tongue smooth like honey she murmured in his ear, so not even Imrahil could hear her;

"I just happened to see you come riding back and I wondered where you had been, but I hadn't expected that explanation." His pupils dilated slightly but that was all the emotion he was able to display. She was very conscious of how close she was to him. She could feel his curt beard on her jaw and smell that underneath the hair he had exactly the scent she had imagined, a blend of sweat, leather and horse. She enjoyed it.

"Well if a man has a secret, why should he reveal it?" Éomer muttered back, cursing in his head at the sharp little girl. She looked warmer in the shine from the fire and he couldn't help but seeing that the eyes in the midst of her wickedness had lost the shade of grey and now was rather dark and bottomless. Not sure whether it was good or bad he took another taste of his strong ale.

"That's a dim answer," she stated still quiet and looked far from satisfied. He tried thinking of a resolution when he noticed the bird pattern of her dress and remembered a special place in the mark where an enormous colony of white birds had settled. It was an amazing sight to ride through the area scaring the clouds of animals into the sky and he knew what he had to do.

"Alright, if you must know," he sighed in false surrender, "my sister and I thought we might split up tomorrow to entertain you and your father separate." She unconsciously tipped her head to the right while listening to his clever lie. "We wanted to show you Rohan, but since your father has expressed his unhappiness with you riding and since both me and my sister consider this skill essential, we have decided," he lowered his voice further forcing her to come closer, "that you ride with me at dawn and that my sister will guide your father. That is what I was doing." She looked taken aback.

"What?" Her sudden cry caught Imrahil's attention, but now she was intrigued and smiled at the father in a sweet innocent manner. He was amazed with the fact that she was able to blush.

"I can't very well say no when I have been bothering my brothers and father with questions concerning the Rohirric horses for weeks," Lothíriel smiled forgetting all about her deal with Imrahil at the thought of what was coming. "Who will be joining us?" she spoke and Éomer had to make it up as they came along.

"You could bring one of your ladies-in-waiting and perhaps a guard that you trust. I am not sure about how the captains or soldiers would think when you disregard your father like this, but maybe some of them would like to come with us as well. I have promised one of the daughters of my counsellors that she could meet you, so she'll be there too and maybe some of my men, you know Edome, right?"

After having looked around the table trying to memorize some of those that would support him in his lies he met her eyes again and found them as green as they had been when he had seen her laugh. Suddenly aware that this excuse would bring him to spend an entire day in the company of the witchy girl Éomer had to empty another glass of ale before returning to her.

"I'll look forward to it," she whispered with a lilt that made sweat wet his back. Hoping that she wouldn't hex him when they went to the woods, he closed his eyes, angry with himself for messing things up. Lothíriel wasn't as naive as not to guess he had made another lie, but she wanted to ride so badly that she made him think she believed him.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: In this chapter I will be writing about what happened to Dor-en-Ernil during the War of the Ring, and it will not be historically correct, just so you know. So for the super-fans; don't be disappointed and enjoy the story instead of worrying about the facts.

Chapter 4 - Not so bad

Éomer had drunk far more than he should have considering he was supposed to be ambassadorial and he reckoned even an attempt to stand up could be fatal. He was however in a bad need of relieving himself and therefore stumbled out of the hall in a- none too gracious manner. Luckily everybody was about as drunk by now and even his sister had begun laughing in that hysterical way demonstrating her lack of self-control. Easily finding his way to the outdoor latrines, having walked that way many times before without being particularly sober, Éomer managed to get back to the house after only ten minutes. He thought for a moment that he had been drinking more than he could actually handle when he returned, for the hall was much darker than when he had left. Even though he was somewhat insecure on his legs, Éomer was a strong drinker and didn't tumble about like some of the less dignified soldiers. He got to his seat and greeted Imrahil with a friendly grin and saw that the prince wasn't unaffected by the brew either.

"Why have they dimmed the lights sister?" he asked Éowyn who was beginning to look worn-out.

"Princess Lothíriel has a surprise for us," the woman answered holding a couple of fingers to the side of her head. No matter how much she tried dominating all the disciplines of the men his sister couldn't outsmart the capacity of her body and she always had difficulties drinking heavily. Then the herald knocked in the ground with his stick once more calling upon everybody's attention.

"Whether you are from the east or the west you have to love a beautiful dance and we're as blessed as to have a tremendous dancer among us today. I am pleased to present the magnificent Princess Lothíriel in her dance called; the scent of love." Éomer only now noticed that the female was missing and went angry at himself for letting his defences down. Ermintrude his old maid who had taken care of him when he was little sat by the fire with the newest member of his staff the young pallid girl whose name he did not recall. They had a drum and a tambourine in their hands and an old Gondorian soldier had taken forth his tattered violin.

The music was unhurried and with a strong rhythm unfamiliar to Éomer. Ermintrude looked as if she was having a great time making the bony hands play on the stretched skin. How come she had such skinny fingers when the rest of her was so, well fleshy? Lothíriel was nowhere to be seen but his guests laughed at the music merrily and started tapping in the floor themselves.

Suddenly out of a dark corner came the sound of bells. He was stunned at the clear resonance for it could as easily have come from heaven as from his house. Slowly a shape emerged from the darkness and glints of gold were reflected with the light and then a voice rose with a feeble but striking tune. She was singing. It wasn't all that easy to catch the words but there could be no doubt about the meaning.

It occurred to them all when her slender ankle reached the light that she was barefooted. Still ringing with the bells in her hand she now breached the darkness and stood in a sea of reddish veils unto which coins had been attached and tempted the weak.

Her belly was exposed in a very eastern way and her eyes lined with a dark pencil that gave grave emotion to the eyes. She moved her hips like they were wavering water and twisted her arms and wrists as if made of smoke.

Never had such foreign an act taken place in the sparsely decorated northern Meduseld, and she was like a bird under the sea. Only this oddity made it twice as beautiful. Following the drum every time she jumped or jerked in different directions soon made her one with the music and the rapid violin raged through the hall like a red all consuming fire. When the pace increased so did her strength of voice and now the words started to make sense.

"Little girl from windy north, sings her song along the shores, sings of love to men unknown, little girl is all alone." She hummed on as she threw away the bells and unfolded two blood red scarves that, when she cast them to the sky, hovered like coloured feathers around her.

She twirled around herself incessantly making scarves and veils follow like delayed birds. Her dress was a thundercloud of autumn and floated like her hair at her movements, flashing for one's eyes, when one closed them. The divine flexibility with which she swayed was so unexpected that most of the guests stood staring with open mouth. It was far from common to see a marble princess move like a deer in spring, and even Éomer sat dazzled by her dance.

She grabbed her own leg and softly led it all the way up to her shoulder. The inhuman position made them all instinctively put a hand to their thighs.

"Manly man from windy south strives to prove his skills so proud, when suddenly from across the sea, he hears a tune of female's glee." Lothíriel sunk to her knees continuing a swift ballet on the floor.

She then leaped up and ran to the table. Untroubled she jumped up and started lifting her feet elegantly in small steps along the row avoiding cups and filth with ease. The men clapped their hands wildly out of rhythm, but she wasn't disturbed by it and Éomer almost believed she no longer had any feet as she stretched her ankles to be a straight succession of her legs.

Getting closer to him, he felt his tongue grow dry. This wasn't the Lothíriel that had just left her chair. This was an exotic nymph from the fiery mountains were passion and fury slept together in union. She was, in that instant the same muse that he saw in the seconds before a battle erupted.

Now standing in front of him he had to cringe back at the nearness of her warm body. Lothíriel sat down charmingly with one foot on each side of his plate. "Manly man from windy south came to find the little girl, and when they crossed each other's lane," she paused tartly and then flied down backwards letting one of her scarves drop into his lap. "They could never part again." Bowing so deeply her nose touched the ground the music ended and Lothíriel laid waiting before him.

The applause broke loose with cheering and congratulations aimed at her father for having such a talented daughter. Éomer soon joined as the enchantment wore off and he could breathe normally again. What a witch, he thought while considering his sister's words that witches weren't beautiful.

Lothíriel was transformed when her face was off the floor and the grey reinstated in her eyes. Not speaking, she smiled and nodded at Éomer implying that she would retire now. He immediately rose and the people went silent.

"That was endearing princess, very entertaining. How would you like to take part in a Rohirric dance?" She was confused because she had already her mind set on the bed awaiting her, but was wise enough not to decline that kind of offer.

"Certainly my lord," she announced and everybody hurried to the floor while the musicians readied themselves.

He saw that she loosened a piece of fabric from the shoulder that fell down her front and back covering the shocking exposed skin like a chiton and was a bit relieved himself. Éomer did not trust his own body, if she came too close so scarcely dressed.

As the violinists started playing the Rohirric guests began yelling restless and blithely grabbed the nearest partner to swing around. As there were only few ladies, Éomer never even got to her before one from his éored kidnapped her. Lothíriel's serious facade cracked completely in the mayhem as she was thrown between eager young men and only when the eighth song ended she tore loose from the soldiers and landed herself on a chair. She wasn't allowed to be alone for long though, and as she longed to get out of the red dress that exposed so much of her skin, Theldy brought her a coat to shield her. It wasn't the perfect solution for she was already too hot, but when a couple of nice riders settled down beside her and asked her to tell of Dor-en-Ernil and Dol Amroth, she soon forgot all about the temperature. Even Éowyn and her father came to sit with her as she painted a somewhat romantic picture of her country and its people. Éomer was dancing with Finnacy a stunning Rohirric beauty with ice blue eyes and hair that was almost white. He didn't want to dance, but the woman had seized him the moment Lothíriel was dragged away and she seemed reluctant to let go just now. He could see the Gondorian princess surrounded by his men, drawing a legend with her lively hands and telling the story with greenish eyes. What mystery was not this woman? Why did she upset him and make him feel like less when she came too close?

When he finally got himself out of Finnacy's claws Lothíriel was bidding goodnight and was followed to her room by an eager guard that returned shortly after looking suspiciously round the hall as if he trusted none to leave his mistress alone. Éomer decided to go to his quarters as well.

***

The morning was bright and fresh and absolutely perfect for a ride. That was if you weren't escorting an ignorant amateur of a refined witch to the woods. He had been forced to saddle her horse as she obviously had no experience and he felt sort of scared that Imrahil would find out about his betrayal.

The two men from his éored and Edome following them had assured him that they would tell no one and both Lothíriel's lady-in-waiting and her hopelessly young defender Daemyn was dedicated to their princess. He was surprised at the frail Theldy whom had so unconditionally accepted the marble princess as her own. It couldn't be easy having to care for someone as Princess Lothíriel. But then again last night had shown some extraordinary assets to the lady, among them a power to set men on fire with her dance.

"Where did that thought come from", he mumbled biting his lip. Erkenbrand, his chief of the Rohirrim and his third in command had refused to come. He stated that his wife had forbidden him to go anywhere with the exotic and seductive princess and Éomer was discouraged as Erkenbrand was one of his closest friends and would have made the trip more sufferable. Still the excuse was valid, besides he never cared too much for Erkenbrand's spouse who where much older than her husband and therefore often acted more like a mother than a wife.

Lothíriel was helped unto the horse by Daemyn and demanded to sit there for some time to be accustomed to the seat. Bainya, the noble lady joining them, sighed insolently in boredom as she had long since mounted her mare which was wearing a man's saddle and not the small chair-like pillow that Lothíriel had been appointed. Lothíriel had however; chosen to put on pants instead of the skirt Bainya was dressed in and was therefore far more suited for the ride.

"Maybe I should try a real saddle," she suggested as she was visibly uncomfortable. Éomer didn't have the head to object do the terrible headache the amount of ale last night had cost him.

"As you wish milady," he spoke mechanically while lifting her down and dragging the horse back to the stables.

As he readied the new equipment for her he thought about Éowyn's reaction when he had revealed his plans. She had been extremely content with his behaviour and fully committed to the task of keeping Imrahil out of the way. He inferred that the sister was possibly so keen on the idea for reasons having to do with her own past. It hadn't shocked him, but he was somewhat thrown off by her sudden enthusiasm.

Éomer wanted mostly to get the outing over with and was exceedingly glad when Lothíriel declared right away how much better the new arrangements were. Straight away, not even caring to show her the basics of making the horses obey, he set off through the city, leaving the job of saving her pretty little behind to his men and Daemyn. Unfortunately that gave the elder lady, Bainya an opportunity to start talking and Éomer quickly realized that he would rather focus on Lady Lothíriel's little behind than listening to another word from the gossiping Rohirric raven.

He held his horse back and looked behind astonished to witness a concentrated Lothíriel steadily work her way down the cobbled road. In spite of the ungodly hour in which they had decided to depart a lot of people passed through the streets and the princess greeted them all with a somewhat misunderstood word. Edome finally pulled himself together and admitted to her that the term she was using actually was only ever used when a woman entered the bedroom to her husband hoping to arouse him. Surveying her as she got the awkward message he expected her to become beet red and not say another word, but instead she laughed out loud in a very warm way that made them all join in.

"Oh how foolish of me," she giggled. "My brothers are never going to let me forget this if they're told." Éomer couldn't resist grinning boldly though many people stopped to look mystified at their typically so grave king.

He pictured the terrified faces of her family when she came home from the barbarians talking like a perverted sailor.

"I am glad that I amuse you King Éomer," she suddenly spoke to him and he found that she was now riding beside him. The eyes still flickered to the road below as to make sure she could keep balance, but truth was she looked like she had been on a horse before and whether Imrahil had approved of it or not, she probably also had.

Beginning to comprehend that the Princess was in fact a bold woman, and not afraid to disobey orders as long as no one discovered her, his regard for her rose.

Once they'd passed the gates the crowds lessened and Edome cast him a questioning look as they approached the river Snowbourn running east to join the river Entwash.

Usually Éomer rode to where the horses were, so he could keep an eye on the growing foals or to visit Harrowdale for a couple of days with some companions. He loved the pine trees there that always stayed green, even when the snow fell and he liked riding up and down the slopes and racing fast through the rough grass.

Today however, he signalled to go west along the Great West Road, which was also the way Lothíriel had come from when she arrived from Gondor. None were still brave enough to walk the Path of the dead, although the ghost army dwelling there had now moved on. They began cantering as there were no people on the main road at this time of day, and Éomer sucked in a good portion of the morning air. The river ran next to them and linden trees stood scattered near the brim with their strange yellow flowers already blooming in the early spring.

Lothíriel now had to focus fully on the animal, but once more proved not to be completely in the dark. Contentedly Éomer listened to the dull sounds of their horses' hoofs and smelled the comforting familiar grass. The sun was raising higher still and the lack of tall trees and shade soon caused his back to sweat. Lothíriel looked like she was still in the cool sanctuary of the golden hall and her hair, which was caught up in a tidy braid looked as if it had been disciplined into not stirring at all. Who was this woman really behind her decent surface? What would he see if he someday caught her of guard?

Lothíriel was relaxed and fervent at the same time. She watched the forest and was momentarily possessed by the sight of the White Mountains on their right.

"It's very beautiful," she breathed closing her eyes letting the light fool around on her lids. "It is so untouched, not like in Dol Amroth; there are crops and little farms everywhere you turn."

He watched her loosen the reins, trusting the horse to know its own course. Firefoot hadn't reacted to her yet and was mostly ignoring her, but at least he hadn't tried snapping at her. Éomer didn't respond to her compliments as he was unsure whether he liked this emotional side of her. Picking up the pace he left her and went galloping ahead. Lothíriel sent Edome a questioning gaze but he seemed as oblivious of his master's thoughts as her.

"He usually rides alone," the marshal explicated, "I reckon he just needs to rid himself of his mounting energy." She smiled in return.

"The lord of horses is not a patient man, yes?" Edome snorted.

"Only when dealing with the éored and, I am sorry to say, not guests. But my king has not been himself for a while. I fear that the war is still hunting him." His confidence in her was flattering, she thought.

"I doubt that any of us are fully recovered from the dark times." He gave her an enquiring look and she proceeded. "During those years we were controlled by one of Sauron's men, a southern warlord named Charthal. The former prince, Adrahil the Second was like my father no superior warrior, and since, before the dark times, he had lived peacefully, when not in conflict with Rohan, he had no big army to fight the intruders. Gondor, of course tried to help us, but the Haradrim was too well trained and too many. Adrahil died eleven years ago and passed the crown to Imrahil who received a principal not too damaged by war but with no military resources whatsoever. In secret my father asked his captain to start training the young and capable. We fought for freedom in the year 3017 on April the 14th and won, thus we were once more a part of Gondor. Charthal escaped, but we were no longer invaded. None of my brothers died in the battle, only two of them were old enough to fight and they were my father's children, a warrior's breed. However we did loose so many brave men. I lost two uncles and four aunts, several cousins and I lost the man I was betrothed to." The captain patted her hand.

"I am sorry Princess." She looked at him with her grey eyes and tight lips.

"Don't be. He was 15 years older than I, and intolerably unintelligent, uncommonly boring and immensely greedy. I am not saying I was happy when I received word of his death, but you must understand that I never was able to picture myself with such a husband." The marshal laughed at her fierce expression.

"Who was the poor bastard then?" he asked picturing a somewhat comical mix of a barbarian and a self-righteous elf.

"He had come from his home land to fight alongside my brothers. He was the heir to the throne of Eriador, a land as far to the north as Moria. Gondor would like to have a better relationship with the Lone-lands, especially considering their excellent quality of fabrics and clothing. I was the trade," she replied dryly. "I was the next queen of Eriador." Surprise was written in his face.

"You are the queen-to-be?" This truth gave her a higher rank than princess and she was therefore supposed to be treated with even greater respect that already demonstrated.

"I _was_, master Edome, the queen-to-be. Now I am just another princess of Dol Amroth. My father would surely marry me off to the next heir, but he hasn't chosen anyone yet, thus the hast of making peace with Rohan. I am content with my current title though, for it comes with less responsibility and more options concerning my future husband. Besides I don't think I would like living so far away from home." The man stopped his horse abruptly starring at her.

"You have no desire to become queen? Then you're a lot more different than I first pictured you." She blushed and nodded. "I thought it was every princess's ambition to achieve the utmost amount of power. Even our own beloved White Lady talked so often of ruthless determination to get herself an influential companion." She had to giggle at his prejudices.

"I can't really blame you for imposing such a depiction of a princess' character upon me as unfortunately I know quite a lot of women who strive exactly for this prominent role as you describe. But take my word for it when I tell you that personally I'd rather marry a miller than a king." He smiled at the comparison and bowed in respect.

"For those words milady, you've earned my sincerest admiration." Edome kicked the horse softly and she followed his example.

Éomer saw the bending of the road ahead and decided to stop and wait for the rest of the group. He was sweaty and bad-tempered as the gallop had only left him more aware of her presence. The others came cantering in good haste and he cursed the wind for making his hair block his view. The river was rushing by and awarded him with a cool steam as the loosened his shirt in the neck, exposing a bit of the bare chest.

"Lord Éomer," she acknowledged him as she reached him.

"Lady Lothíriel, now we're not far from our destination, I'll have to ask you all to be quiet as we approach them." She squeezed her eyes together mystified but agreed silently. He led them off the road opposite the river. The veldt was packed with tiny shrubberies here and she could see nothing interesting in particular. They continued until the road behind them was long gone and the shadows of the mountains in the horizon almost touched them, then Éomer halted and looked at his companions.

"Come here Princess," he called and the young woman rode up to him. He was annoyed that Edome was so talkative as to have spent the entire time by Lothíriel's side. Whether he was upset with the princess for steeling away his captain or with his captain for occupying the princess he could not settle on.

"Look to where I am pointing milady."

She came closer to get a better view from the right angle. In the bushes in its carefully fabricated nest a fat little white sparrow sat sleeping. It was too early in the spring for eggs, but it was obvious that it was preparing itself.

"I see it," she whispered almost touching his shoulder with hers.

"Then take another look at the landscape, do you see?" She raised her chin and discovered that in almost every little shrubbery a similar creature sat nesting.

"They're everywhere," she stated letting her eyes find another bird every time they moved. The noble lady Bainya wasn't looking that impressed.

"That's the great surprise?" she mocked. Éomer didn't care to answer.

"Wait for us here," he told Lothíriel his heart pumping slightly faster with exhilaration. She nodded amused and watched as he and Edome rod in a big half circle around the area until he stood upper site her a couple of thousand feet away.

Sending her a mischievous smile he suddenly jerked the reins and made Firefoot jump forward in high speed. She lost her breath as the hundreds of birds lifted from the earth to avoid the marching hooves.

Majestically they soared like a unit away from danger creating a bridal veil of feathers above their heads. She saw him galloping through what could have been foaming water with a smile like he had just defeated Sauron himself and she just couldn't hold back any longer.

With a scream more delicate than the roar he had yelled when riding into the area, she forced her mare into running and felt like her spirit flew with the birds as they rose before her too. She steered the mare from side to side thus evading the nests, but making more frightened sparrows' batter their wings. She laughed so hard she thought she was going to fall of the horse continuously driving her mare through the nesting environs causing an angry scattering mob to cry her ears full.

The wonderful sight of the disturbed creatures from below as the sun shone through the wings as if a bluish and golden tent had been raised to shield them from rain and harm made her think of old fairy tales. In her delight she eyed that stiff noble lady Bainya screaming desperately because white droppings had fallen on her perfect blond hair. Suddenly she stood facing Éomer who had an impish smile on his face and she managed to stop laughing.

"I forgive you," she shouted to be heard in the infernal noise.

"For what?" His question was accompanied by a very aware glimpse in the eyes and she smiled.

"For lying to me once more, you snake. Why can't you just admit that you had forgotten all about time when going for a ride?" He didn't even blink.

"Because then you would think me rude, and erroneously belief that I did not care for the alliance." She circled him in gallop.

"I think you're rude anyway," she yelled pointing accusingly towards his chest. "But as I said I forgive you." He started riding too, drawing an even bigger circle around her.

"Then I probably should not tell your uncle that you already know how to ride." She grinned daringly at him.

"You better not tell him," she warned setting off and away from him, not holding the reins as a demonstration of her skills and closing her eyes in doggedness. Éomer went after her and hunted her through the veldt until Edome called upon them both, saying that they needed to go back to Meduseld.

She turned straight away, letting her horse that was faster and less burdened than Éomer's race him back to the others. She met him with a victorious posture as he reached the group seconds after her.

"I just outran the Lord of Horses in his own mark," she bantered now sitting on the horse like she had ridden for years. Edome put up a theatrically shocked face and Éomer replied;

"Well if a certain lady hadn't cheated, maybe then it would be clear that the Lord of Horses cannot be outdone when racing." She shook her head at his pathetic excuse and smiled like she was being charitable.

"If you say so," she submitted with false coyness.

On their way back Éomer didn't mind riding beside Lothíriel. She was in a good mood, but didn't keep nattering on like Bainya had done it. The unfortunate noble lady had been sobbing ever since Edome jestingly claimed that the bird dung wouldn't come off. He looked at the princess who at this moment had leaned back over the horse her hands gathered behind her neck and was now humming a small piece of music. He was not used to her being so peaceful, but he did recognize the limberness from her nightly performance.

"I didn't get to endear you yesterday. I have to say both the dance and the song was very… foreign, but in a good way." She didn't open her eyes but exposed two lines of bright white teeth that was a size bigger than normal ones. This however, did only contribute to making her smile even more blinding.

"I'll take that as a compliment my Lord. If you're interested in such trivialities I can tell you that both derives from countries even further to the east, where women dress like that every day and the music is twisted and strange like a dream."

"You have travelled a lot I take it?" He questioned fascinated with this exotic part of her.

"Mm, but never in this direction. I haven't seen the grey harbours or the northern woods. My uncle Haleth has taken me to lands where the sun burns stronger and weird creatures live. I have seen cats at the size of a wolf and women with skin like the midnight heavens who smelled like dried flowers. You probably don't believe me, because you have always only fared in your beloved West, but I know places where even the daydreams of children could not begin to comprehend the beings living there."

Éomer was never a man of much imagination, but her soft words let him straight into a world he had never known before. She told him of castle in the middle of an ocean of sand, where the sickle of the moon was lying down instead of standing and where a king, dark of body but righteous of mind, ruled.

"Maybe you should try travelling," she suggested breaking of a description of the spicy food. He hesitated while considering the idea.

"I don't think I would enjoy it," he confessed. "It sounds thrilling in so many ways, but… surely I would miss the morning mist and the sea of green. I have never seen a winter without snow or wanted more excitement when eating my dinner. I guess we're just different in that matter." She sat up again gripping the reins.

"And thank God for that," she exclaimed making him almost sour as it sounded like she could nothing but loath the thought of being like him. "I mean just think if everybody was alike; wouldn't it be the dullest of worlds to live in? Then we couldn't debate and be provoked or even be amazed, because no one would be different." Her childish and idealistic voice as she listed up the horrors of a monotonous existence, made him smile massively.

"Are you laughing at me?" she asked looking very spiky.

"No I am just happy that we _are_ dissimilar after all." Grasping his undertone she giggled.

"I suppose it's a good thing there's only one King of Rohan. Quite frankly I would die if I had to live with only Éomers to wait on me, be friendly with only Éomers and fight with nothing but Éomers." She acted exhausted at the scenario and he frowned.

"And I am grateful that you are here, so that I have someone to kill when I get annoyed, though I would not want to have to face your father if anything happened to you." Her smile was positively iniquitous.

"Of course you wouldn't. My father is a strange man, he will offer me to a king he has never met, but at the same time he tear out the heart of anyone daring to molest me. It's all the same with you men. Without us you break down crying and still you are just trying to get rid of us," she teased with a melodramatic face.

"Let me assure you, I don't want to get rid of you," Éomer replied with a bow.

"Is that a promise?" She asked cheekily and nodded back.

"Yes, it has been ages since such a captivating young lady visited Meduseld," he said surprised to find that he actually meant it.

"Well, then there's only left to thank you for your hospitality," she spoke with a ceremonial note of voice. "And maybe question the king if he feels like a rematch?" She only lifted an eyebrow before both of them yanked the reins, and made the eager horses race down the road.

Lothíriel was laughing fondly all the way back to Edoras as he was trying to cheat all the time with noises that made her horse go slower. She did however, catch up on the way to control the mare very quickly and he had to face another defeat as she thundered through the gate before him and continued up the main street. Half way up she halted and turned in her seat. Éomer slowed down not trying to disguise his ragged breath. She too was gasping, but with a fierce posture named herself the winner.

"I forfeit," he spoke and the people around him starred surprised.

"Then I suppose I have the right to claim something from you later." Her wicked smile only caused him to grin.

"Yes, milady may ask of me anything she pleases." Contentedly she made the horse walk again.

"I'll have to think about it," she muttered and they went in a slow pace to the house at the end of the road.

Edome got to them ten minutes later in a more dignified speed, but wearing a happy face. Lothíriel was in a merry mood as well and her cheeks all red from the fresh air. The weather wasn't very warm yet and though the sun shone brightly the wind still had the smell of frost.

"You just go inside and I'll deal with your horse," the captain promised dismounting at the same time.

Lothíriel didn't want to leave the saddle just yet and as the men dragged their stallions to the water basin she paced round the square. Éomer saw content but also sadness in her eyes. Surely it had to be difficult hiding her lust for freedom with a controlling father like Imrahil. As he finished his thought he heard the unmistakable voice of the Gondorian prince.

"Daughter, what do you think you're doing?" All the traitors froze expecting the worst. Éomer glanced at Lothíriel who, in some mysterious way, had managed to heave her left leg over the back of the horse, so she was now sitting in a proper ladylike manner looking revealingly guilty. The tall man came flying down the stairs in a haste Éomer had not thought possible. He ran to the girl and pulled her down lavishly.

"Oh uncle I did nothing but sit on the calm creature," she argued with an innocent expression.

"Don't lie to me. You were going riding and once again without my consent. I have told you to stay off horses for good and you didn't listen. Go to your room immediately and stay there until you understand why I do this."

It was quite bizarre witnessing the prince treating his relative like she was nothing but an insolent child. She submitted without further dispute, probably blissful that her true mischief had remained undiscovered. It was after all better letting the prince believe that she had only been intending to ride and better not to turn his attention to what he didn't seem to notice, her untidy hair.

Éomer didn't see her for the rest of the day. He had been harsh on his sister for not keeping Imrahil out of the way and angry with the princess for not dismounting when she should have. The foreign prince however, was exceedingly pleased with the situation and even started whistling as they went for a walk in the city. Éomer was relieved that the prince didn't seem to place any blame on him, although feeling a little ashamed that he hadn't helped her when she was sent to her cage.

Éowyn had acted outrageous when she heard what the Gondorian ordered and shrewdly came to the conclusion that she would stay home while Éomer dealt with the guest.

"Marvellous carvings," Imrahil flattered swinging his arms invigorated. "I dare say they are comparable to even the statues in Dol Amroth. I find it interesting how you prefer non-figurative patterns instead of humans or horses." Éomer felt the thrill from the early ride leave his body slowly and the takeover of his dutiful nature.

"We do depict our animals too, as they have great emblematic meaning to us, you'll see that the local tavern is actually built so that the entire house looks like one huge wooden horse."

"Really?" Imrahil blew, sounding authentically impressed. "I must say lord Éomer, you have proved to be far nobler than I ever imagined. When I tasted the wonderful meal yesterday it occurred to me how much we have missed out on by fighting each other all these years." Éomer had never seen Dol Amroth, the capital, but his sister had visited it once with her husband as an ambassador from Ithillien. She hadn't met neither Lothíriel nor Imrahil before, as she had spent most of her time with the women of the court, much to her own dismay. But she had seen the city, and told lively of the rich culture and imposing architecture.

"Indeed, my friend. I have longed as much to visit your land as I have longed for peace." They changed directions down an alley aiming for the craftsmen's neighbourhood.

"I think it is about time that we sit down with your counsel and start working on an official treaty." Éomers heart began jumping cheerfully.

"You know not how greatly your words gratify me. Rohan has long been beleaguered with the insecurity of tomorrow. There are rumours of a gathering to the East where the defeated slaves of Sauron discuss a possible raid against Gondor and Rohan. We may need each other's aid sooner than you think." They reached the infirmary and Éomer waved the other man inside.

"I have heard of these troubling stories. Let's us hope that it is as false as the gossip of the women. Should we come to see the dawn of judgement day though, then rest assured that the Gondorians will stand on your side." He lay his hand reassuring on Éomer's shoulder. "Take my word for it." The king of Rohan nodded and rejoiced.

They entered a squared courtyard with four wings. Each had five doors in them and stone benches under a covered walkway marked by thin columns. Pale young men were resting on the seats in the sun while skilled men and woman ran back and forth with materials for bandaging or herbs for medicine.

"Here you see that some victims are still hurting from the war of the ring." Éomer continued to the door at the end of the patio and opened it.

"How can they still be bleating, it's been three years?" Imrahil gawped uneasy.

The door led them to a wonderful green garden where even more unwell riders sat half asleep.

"Some wounds don't heal. These were the men that survived the Witch King of Angmar, but the injury he left upon their skin won't go away and most of them are driven mad by the pain."

Imrahil's eyes flinched from a man in a white shirt rolling his head round constantly to a young soldier that looked like he was searching for his missing legs. Éomer walked to a man standing alone up a tree, reading. As his one arm was wearing a dressing he had to turn the pages with his nose.

"Why are we here?" the prince asked and Éomer looked at him with trepidation.

"I come here every week to indulge hope. The riders here need persistency so I have to come here the same day the same time every week. I have to believe that it makes a difference."

Éomer saw clearly that the Gondorian prince didn't like to see the suffering men, and thought him slightly weak. His was a good leader, but not a warrior Éomer reckoned. This was acceptable to some extent and Éomer knew that only few men were as audacious as himself when dealing with war affairs. He stopped by the man with the book, who slowly acknowledged the newcomers.

"Greetings my friend, Bedros, how are you this morning?" The man smiled with a touch of pain on his forehead.

"Well as good as can be expected, when dear Lamaya refuses to let me go for a walk in the city. I feel rather like a prisoner than a patient." His humoured tone made Éomer sigh relieved.

Bedros had been a close friend since childhood and had fought bravely on the Pelennor field before becoming stabbed by the Witch King. Sometimes the man wasn't even able to sit properly without turning grey with discomfort.

"What is the cause of your bubbling spirit today, the weather perhaps?" Éomer suggested jestingly.

Imrahil had redrawn from the chat and was walking around in the garden looking at the foliage of the flowerbeds.

"No, even though it is a wonderful day, is it not?" He looked to the sky as the sun painted patterns on his brow. Éomer agreed silently, suddenly thinking about the morning ride and Lothíriel's inviting red cheeks after the race.

"No my lord, my mood and my corporal situation are due to an entirely different sunshine. It began yesterday and I haven't felt so good since the first spring arrived after the war. It's really unexplainable, like if the cold wind just changed and now a southern breeze are cuddling my bashed heart. Something, a spirit of some other world, has come to Rohan with a hope of healing. I just know that something good is going to happen."

Éomer smiled at the poetic phrases and laid a gentle hand on the rider's shoulder.

"I reckon you've heard of the Gondorians then?" The man looked at him with sceptical expression on his face.

"The spirit might have arrived with them, but it derives from somewhere higher. I tell you my king, there's magic in the air. I know that something wonderful is going to happen and I don't intend on lying in my bed when it ensues."

Éomer wondered if maybe Bedros was right. The man had a sixth sense and Éomer had always listened to his guidance until the day when the poor man was laid wounded into a bed he hadn't left for a long time.

"I see you are quite occupied with your diplomatic obligations so please don't waste any more time with me."

"Time cannot be wasted on you, my friend. I will go now, but if you are as well in three days I'll order Lamaya to take you outside the sanatorium."

Grinning he bowed deferentially, a bit sad that he could not stay longer. Imrahil was eager to leave, but Éomer still walked very slowly making sure to wave at every patient who was conscious enough to notice him.

"An interesting bunch of people," Imrahil commented when the door closed behind them. "They seem strong and weak at the same time, their bodies aching but their eyes burning. Why don't you let king Elessar cure them, he fixed your sister after all?" Éomer shook his head.

"King Aragorn tried, but it appears that my sister has more strength in her than most of my riders and was able to overcome the poison in her body. Gondor's Lord told me that it wasn't impossible to heal a wound made by one of the nine ringwraihts, but only few defeat the dark venom." Imrahil hummed beside him.

"I wish I could help you on this, but it appears that you have an unsolvable problem on your hands," he spoke sounding genuine. Éomer nodded sad.

"True, but let us speak no more of these sad things. I'll take you to see our finest craftsmen and their work. You may even find a souvenir for your liking."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Broken promises

Éomer hadn't seen her in two days. Whether she was spiting her father or following his directions was impossible to say, but one thing was certain; once Lothíriel at last appeared during a breakfast she was impeccably dressed and with movements as hushed as soaring dust.

He saw nothing of the laughing woman he remembered from their ride and for some reason he thought it wise not to take such a risk again. He had thought a lot about the jeopardy of their escapade and reached the conclusion that he was not ready to repeat the adventure no matter how heartening.

Still her grey eyes troubled him, even though they no longer caused a shudder. Pushing all thoughts of her away, he didn't talk to her and continued discussing horses with Imrahil. "Do you hand breed or pasture breed your horses?"

"Mostly we just let them all run together in big herds," he told the prince, "but we keep some of the most gifted mares here in Edoras to breed to specific stallions."

Lothíriel didn't care much for their conversation concentrating hard on remaining confident and graceful. The last days in the exile of her room had past so very slowly. Her father had commanded her to stay in there, saying that he would excuse her with a claim of illness.

The only stimulation in the dull hours, when Theldy left to tend to other chores, was the few visits by Lady Éowyn. Since she was supposed to be sick she had to lie in the bed during the meeting, but the White Lady turned out to be quite pleasant company.

They had talked for more than an hour of the stupidity of the dominative males and complained to each other about the many occasions on which they had been treated like inferiors.

Éowyn told her of her quarrels with the husband Faramir who apparently had not so much against yielding for the demands of his wife. Lothíriel had whispered of the profound wish she nurtured of choosing her own man, and not being forced to submit to the engagement of some old, but considerable prince. Éowyn, much to her relief, told her that she expected nothing less from Lothíriel.

Éowyn had also told her that she was expecting, which had been quite a shock for Lothíriel. She was for a moment unable to picture The Slayer as a mother, but then the White Lady started stroking her stomach lovingly and Lothíriel had celebrated with her. The pregnancy wasn't visible yet, but there was a smaller swelling on her belly that, if she wasn't so skinny by nature, could easily be mistaken as just feminine curves.

Lothíriel had no plans for motherhood just now, but as Éowyn was only five years older than her, she couldn't help but imagining herself with child. The thought wasn't unappealing and she had always been very keen on looking after others' babies. She knew she would make a decent mother someday and would be lying if she said she hadn't wondered how soon.

Lothíriel was allowed back in the golden hall with the promise that she would act exactly as according to the proper conduct of a princess, and she intended to honour his wishes for once.

The day passed with no special events to cheer her up. As her father encouraged her to show off her needlework she spent most of the light hours in the great hall with the embroideries in her hands.

Many riders came and commented politely, but she was the happiest when Daemyn decided to sit with her and just watch her clumsy stitching without asking too many questions and still providing her with a comforting presence. The King of the Mark and her father came and went, followed closely by a diligent writer scribbling down any substantial proposals coming from the two leaders concerning the alliance.

She had thought a great deal about the contract and even had some beneficial additions to it, but as a decent lady she held back and only watched the negotiations at a distance. Desiring to thank the Rohirric King for his kindness, Lothíriel had been surveying the two men for hours trying to catch him on his own. Unfortunately her father had taken a special liking to the foreign lord and seemed obsessed with debating the man. So she did not interfere or tried to join the talking.

"You look sad, Princess," Daemyn noted moving a little closer. He had not failed her once, and she knew he constantly kept an eye on her, even when engaged elsewhere.

"I should have worked on my tasks instead of sitting here. I am far behind with my writing." She sighed and dropped the sewing in her lap resting the soar fingers.

"Forgive me my Lady, but it seems to me as if you never allow yourself a break from your work, maybe you should take some time off and enjoy the stay for once?"

His intentions were good as always, but she nearly burst into tears without meaning to, when he suggested a pause. She was a bit emotional these days, but what was one to expect when one had been locked up for hours?

"Oh I really couldn't," she managed. "People are counting on me to do this, and I'd hate to disappoint them." He put a hand on her arm feeling her disturbance.

"Sorry I didn't mean to upset you. Can I help?" She shook her head getting the distress under control.

"I think I want to retire now. Will you take me to my room?" He looked confused.

"But it's not even dark yet."

"I know but I am still a little weak from my illness," she lied. "And surely I will not be missed at dinner." He smiled while they rose.

"Now on that matter you are mistaken. Many riders have asked for the Princess, not being able to forget the first night, and your dance." She looked at him in disbelieve.

"Will you do me a favour and tell that to my father?" she hissed with angry sarcasm, realizing that she had yet again let her temper rule her mouth. She was astonished when the young man showed courtesy of a prince and ignored her mistake.

"Of course I will, but now you must rest."

Éomer enjoyed dinner and was constantly jesting with his ally. Éowyn on the other hand looked mad, but he didn't care to ask her what the reason was, as he had no need to feel depressed again. He knew it was upsetting to his sister, when her entails was discounted, but he took the chance of an outburst later on.

He did see Lothíriel was missing once again, but with her out the way it was so much easier to care for the Gondorians. The princess was the only woman among the guests and Éomer knew how to handle soldiers far better than how to handle a lady. Prince Imrahil had turned out to be somewhat of a merry fellow and Éomer could not help taking pleasure in his company.

The Gondorian artists among the soldiers had proven quite skilled this evening playing a more classical elegant music than the one the Rohirrics preferred, but it was entertaining listening to a different tune. The dances were too complicated and yet boring for him to attend, but the Rohirric ladies fancied learning the difficult steps and improved in the hours of amusement.

He stayed up drinking much more ale than he should have until the last soldiers stumbled to their own, or some willing girl's, bed. Éomer bid Imrahil a good night and proceeded to his chamber.

Lying in the huge double bed he felt awfully warm from the beer allegedly. Twisting on the madras he stripped of all cloths and even went up to open a window. The chilly breeze on his sweat soaked skin did him some good, but soon his body got used to the air and turned immensely hot once more. Well aware that his drunken condition would shortly turn to hangovers, he returned to the nest of his carpets in an attempt to let sleep ease his irritation. Half an agonising hour later his eye lids at last shut out all perception and turbulent dreams swept through Éomers mind.

The slumber did not last for long and he woke complaining loudly as a headache overwhelmed him. The giddiness had seized, when he petulantly tossed his legs over the edge and he settled on a visit to the kitchen for a cup of strong tea to calm his senses.

Éomer was angry with himself for not stopping before he got too intoxicated. When the servants were excessively generous with pouring he always ended up far too haggard the next day. It was nice using the liquids for a little courage, but the after-effects weren't always worth it.

Wishing that this was one of the times he would have restricted himself, he threw on a long caftan and stuck his feet into a loose pair of pants. The hallways were empty and dark, and for someone less familiar to the house, it probably wouldn't be undemanding finding the way to the kitchen.

Éomer loved sliding through the dark rooms not needing much light to orientate. It was comfortable and proverbial to know the maze of one's home, and great to think that none too many people could tread so promptly in the mist of night without bumping into walls and wainscots.

_I have lived here__ almost as long as I can remember_, he reminded himself. Even though Éowyn was the younger of the two, she still had more memory of the death of their father followed closely by their mother's.

He recalled some rugged hands lifting him up on his first horse, and a pale but ever present smile, from the woman that had brought him into the world. King Théoden had been his tutor and icon and the king had taught him to fight, although many told Éomer that he always was a feisty child.

Walking proudly across the great hall to the more humble quarters of the house he noticed quite a few riders and soldiers that lay where they had fallen earlier in the evening. A deafening noise of snoring noses echoed between the columns, and he had to think the men less venerable as it was not deemed suitable to just drop dead where the booze finally deprived them of strength to stay on their feet.

He was puzzled by finding that the light was lit in the kitchen and by heeding the sound of a scrawling quill. Éomer wondered who would be up on this ungodly hour and silently stuck his head trough the door.

Lothíriel sat working on one of the wooden benches, carefully dipping the feather into the ink. She stroked the paper like it was the damaged wing of a sparrow and two horizontal lines had formed on her brow. How she was full of surprises, Éomer reckoned taking a few minutes watching her and not revealing his existence. She was wearing nothing but a simple fitted nightgown in green and looked so accessible that he dared enter.

"Good evening, Princess," he whispered, deliberately making his voice so subtle she had to lift her head to hear it. Lothíriel didn't smile as she felt overused and hadn't expected anyone to find her there. It even took her some effort to mumble back a, none too polite welcome.

Feeling uninvited Éomer proceeded to the tub of hot water always soaring above the fireplace and filled his cup. The dried leaves, he found in a bin on the various shelves and when he saw she was looking awfully tired he grabbed another cup and repeated the procedure. "Here you go milady," Éomer offered hoping she would not reject the support.

"Thank you," she managed confusedly and sipped warily from the hot fluid. "Mm, this is good. I didn't know that the Lord of Horses was competent enough to make his own tea," the voice was humoured as she added; "I can't believe what I am seeing." Éomer restrained himself from sneering back.

"Well you Gondorian ladies have many mistaken prejudice of us western barbarians."

She chuckled vaguely and Éomer was suddenly aware of how inappropriately they were both dressed.

Sitting down he tucked his bare feet under the table and sat starring at Lothíriel, who had returned to her writing.

"What are you doing up so late anyway," he queried not liking the silence after her merry mischief.

She finished a sentence without answering before she put down the quill, getting the feeling that she would get no work done with him around. The women of the court back home would surely have gasped if they could hear her thoughts of how she would prefer a little privacy, when she could be talking to the handsome and rich King of Rohan.

She had been reminded all too thoroughly before leaving that he was one of the most wanted bachelors in all of Arda. Besides his handsomeness she had found nothing particularly attractive about him, but then she wasn't really looking, she told herself.

Lord Éomer was a king in almost every way. Resolute and sturdy he appeared and from what her father had informed her not without intellect either.

She felt however, that he was carrying some sort of grief behind his strong facade that prevented him from becoming the magnificent leader he could be. She didn't want a king for her husband and especially not one as dark as him. Because even though his skin and hair was as bright as gold, the eyes were heavy with shadows. Besides, she had always pictured herself with a more of a farmer than a warrior. She admired men of combat, but they were only capable of taking life, while a farmer nurtured it.

"I am working," she told him tersely.

Éomer wondered what a noble lady could be fumbling with and asked her.

"If you must know, I am educated in nine languages, I have a special gift for idioms, I suppose. That's why I am helping King Elessar to make a dictionary of all Gondorian words. With all the interaction between Gondor and other countries the amount of words used has increased rapidly. I simply decide how they are spelled and add the new phrases to the old ones in one big book." Éomer was intrigued.

"What, you just decide the letters from how the word sounds?" She nodded and his eyes skimmed her paper. The writing was a bit crooked, although beautiful.

"That's brilliant. I always wondered how that kind of thing worked."

He took the papers without asking and read out loud. His Gondoric was insufficient to understand all her notes, but he did comprehend the great quantity of time all this would have cost her.

"I really like this job; I get to play, like you with your horses."

Éomer could hardly see how she could consider writing a game, but he also thought her clever.

"Rohan could really need a dictionary like that," he mumbled. "We don't even have an alphabet, and I am already seeing the tendencies for the younger kids to lose interest in our heritage of spoken stories and songs. We have no means to preserve our culture without an alphabet." She sent him a pair of sad eyes.

"Yes the decay of tradition is happening every day," Lothíriel answered feeling almost sick at the thought. Éomer surveyed her closely and then popped the question.

"Maybe you could do it?" She went flushed with perplexity.

"What do you mean?" Éomer pointed at the words she had written.

"You could make an alphabet for us. Of course you would get paid, but you would have your liberty to play and invent like you prefer it." Lothíriel considered the idea. She already had enough to do with the Gondorian language, but the thought of creating an entirely new idiom made butterflies take off inside of her.

"A completely fresh alphabet," she murmured biting her lower lip. "That's a tricky task and complicated as well, but maybe…"

Her mind began forming letters never seen before and she instinctively formed different sounds with her tongue and mouth.

He watched her anticipation with curiosity. It would be delightful to have such a charming female in the house, because obviously she would have to stay in Rohan at least a couple of month each year to be able to do the job properly. Éomer wouldn't mind sharing some time with her, mainly if she looked as endearing and thrilled as in this very moment. She met his eyes and apparently read something on his face, because her huge eyes diminished and became grey again.

"It would be an honour to take on such an imperative assignment," she stated with a posture of a queen. "If only I can find the time I would be delighted to lend you my services."

He nodded gratefully and laid his chin in his hand as she bended over the papers again.

"You know, I can't seem to figure you out," he said not realizing that the thought had actually left his mouth. Lothíriel put down the feather with such deliberate tardiness that he felt she resisted the conversation.

"How so, my lord?" the scrutinizing eyes were a little reluctant, but she hid it well underneath her uncommonly long lashes.

It hit him that she had rid her face of all cosmetics and it became clear to him how pale her cheeks were without the powdered blush. He watched her daringly and she did only look down when his gaze lingered at her lips.

"In one moment you are as warm as the dark rocks under the sun and the next as cold as the tip of the mountains."

She sat up straighter and the awaiting mouth went firm. Éomer did not notice the dodgy brow or the fact that her hands started shaking lightly.

"I must admit that when you came here I found it difficult to intercede with you, as you had this look of stern fierceness, like you weren't here to negotiate, but to strike us all to the ground. My sister fell for you immediately, praising your steel rigidness."

Lothíriel didn't change her impartial facial expression, but inwardly she smiled at the White Lady's approval of her. The man, across the table was spilling inappropriate words, but why didn't she stop him? Truth was perhaps, that she was interested in his view on her, no matter how irrelevant. When a king looked upon her, what did he see? Éomer had held a small pause in his analysis, but when she didn't reply he went on.

"Then at the party you transformed into this," he didn't know how to say it, "this woman." She raised an eyebrow.

"I was not a woman before then?"

"That's not what I meant milady. But suddenly you were alive, like if you had dropped a mask…" the moment the phrase had been spoken he knew that he had made a mistake, even though he had no idea why.

"A mask!" she shrieked while raising so fast her cup tipped over and emptied the content on the floor. "Are you accusing me of being false? What insolence, I will not stand for such a thing." He too was now standing up trying to block her way out.

"No, milady, that's not what I meant! Please forgive me, it's just that you baffle me and I know not how to tell you." He had never imagined that she could demonstrate such anger.

Lothíriel felt her pumping heart objecting out of fear of being discovered as an actress. She would leave him with no doubt of her sincerity, even if it was an illusion. He stepped back from her blast of emotion and she knew she had to disguise her anxiety as resentment if she had to be believable.

Éomer grabbed her surprisingly at the shoulders in an attempt to calm her down. "Forgive me, you must understand. I did not know any better. Your unpredictable tendency to go from fire to ice made me jump to conclusions." Lothíriel found it wise to build up an argument. In that way she could avoid him and his sharp eyes for rest of the visit.

"You are not any better yourself my lord," she mocked pushing his hands away. "You think people don't notice your dark eyes?" His face went from begging to appal. "You stutter around your own house as if you never got of your horse and used your own legs. I am not the one wearing a mask."

The indictment came to her mind from her heart. She was not telling lies. In her eyes the king was carrying around a secret burden which he refused to share and it made him less of a man. Apparently she had hit a sore spot for his mouth had opened half on its way to beg for mercy, half for protesting desperately.

Lothíriel continued pitilessly. "I can't believe that you point your finger at me when you act as if you are a bloody saint, while you're so close to edge that you can smell the gloom. For some past memory that you deny and hide away, you forget yourself and you forget what matters. When we rode through the city you could hardly look at the people, as if they were infected, so don't come around lecturing me." In frustration of her words he and without intending to, threw her on the table behind her and roared like a lion.

"It's not true!"

Her first reaction was passing fear. He was much bigger than her and his weight almost pressed all air out of her. But then her eyes turned black.

Afraid that he had awaken the witch in her and outraged with himself for losing temper, he instantly let go of her collarbone, which he had nailed to the wood.

"Princess, I did not intend…" He had no words. She stayed on her back briefly worried that she had gone too far. He offered his hand as a help, but she slapped it cruelly.

Rising and walking to the door without a sound she left him behind.

When over the threshold, she turned. Éomer stood weak with his head lowered into the right hand. Lothíriel felt sorry for having to make an example of him. She would rather that one of his riders had confronted her with the issue, but only the king had seen her change.

It broke her heart slightly to witness the proud and enormous man drop down on the desk allowing the truth of his life to sink in. She knew that he had in fact been lying to himself about how far out his soul had come, and her sharp tongue had made him aware.

Walking back to her room, she decided to forget all about the episode and just keep up pretence of injure. She had to keep thinking of the reward her father had promised her; freedom.

Éomer could hardly believe what had happened. She had left with such haste; she had not even bothered to take along her papers that still occupied the table. He knew he should not have condemned her and claiming that she was a performer, but his tongue had run loose. What hurt him the most were her accusations, which was what he had feared he was displaying all along. The inconvenient truth struck him like a whip on his shoulders and he returned to his bed feeling utterly defeated.

Lothíriel woke up the next day suddenly realizing that she had forgotten all her papers in the kitchen. Afraid that all her work would be lost by the hand of some ignorant young pawn, she hurried out the room, hardly dressed and her hair a big mess. Barefooted she ran through the hallway eyes down, trying not to panic.

Therefore she did not see King Éomer who came around the corner in his riding suit. She bumped right into him and almost fell on her behind if he hadn't caught her elbows and pulled her close.

Lothíriel looked up into his apologetic blue eyes. It took her several seconds to comprehend what had happen, while she starred into those two stars glaring back at her. They seemed to have changed during the night and there was something so soft in them. She reckoned this was the look he daily aimed at his horse. Then Lothíriel tore loose remembering herself and their argument.

"Lord Éomer," she spoke curtly. He bowed ignoring her sparse clothes and she drew the cape up to cover the bare shoulder.

"You left this yesterday," he said handing her the documents which were completely unharmed. She didn't grant him a smile, but nodded in gratitude and made a move as if this was the end of their conversation.

"Wait," he grabbed her wrist gently making her freeze. "I still wish you to forgive me, maybe not right away, but sometime perhaps. It was wrong of me to accuse you of being false and on the top of that you're right." She folded her brow in disbelieve.

"About what?"

"About everything, princess. I am the one who needs to alter. I am sorry."

She nodded again wanting mostly to smile greatly, but she restrained herself and carefully removed his hand.

"Very well, my lord, that's a start."

Without another word she slipped away returning to her room. He stood gazing at her swaying back and felt thankful. Even though she was a marble princess she was at least genuine. He wanted to change to the better, knowing that his people needed him more than ever. He had just needed a push in the right direction, to restore his proper priorities. Éomer was not bitter for her treatment, but he did pity her. For even though perhaps she believed that she was being herself, he knew that she had some soft core underneath that icy skin.

The week quickly ended. The Gondorians and the riders finally stopped bragging and began just enjoying each others' wit and friendships blossomed.

Éomer was content with seeing that the two groups got along well and he and Imrahil had also reached a point when they didn't need to talk all the time, but could sit quietly taking pleasure in a cup of ale together without the silence being awkward.

He had strived to be as open and fond as possible ever since the princess had yelled at him. She had ignored his moves to make things right and had not responded on his attempts to get in touch with her. Determined that he would make one last effort to regain her trust, Éomer had spend the last night before the departure on fabricating a small carving for her.

He was no artist, but still the outcome had been fairly imaginative. When the morning banquet was finished and she headed for the outer terrace he followed discretely.

"Good morning," she said with her back turned on him. Éomer was surprised that she had actually noticed him as she always seemed so lost in thoughts.

"And a good morning to you too, princess," he greeted.

She stood still looking to the horizon and the grave face did not match the sparkling eyes. A breeze lifted her hair away from her cheeks and exposed the refined skin. Lothíriel was a lot smaller than Éomer and when he stopped so close they almost touched, her tresses blew up and tickled his nose.

"Are you sad for leaving Rohan?" he questioned and fought off the desire to put his hands on her shoulders.

"Yes. I'll miss all the green of the world here and the people." Éomer moved round her so she had to lift her chin if she didn't want to stare at his chest. Instead she met his eyes and he saw that they were in fact sad.

"You know I would so hate for you to leave me without giving me your forgiveness." She didn't answer, but her face wasn't stiff and uninviting. "I made something for you." She lifted an eyebrow in surprise and he took her hand. On the open palm he placed the little round piece of wood. She brought it closer to study its carving, but was still mystified when her eyes met his again.

"You said you liked the decorations of Meduseld and I thought I would make one for you. It's the first Rohirric letter ever made and it's the first letter in your name." Her lips had parted slightly in amazement and wonder.

"This is a letter and you made it?" He smiled verifying. He had never gotten the impression that Lothíriel was a woman in lack of words. Quite the opposite in fact, it was like she always kept a treasure of unspoken riches underneath her tongue, but in this moment she was speechless.

He pulled out a simple leather string and attached it to the piece making it into a medallion. She didn't resist him when he slowly brushed her hair over one shoulder and tied the ends together. It was obvious that the primitive jewel didn't go well with her dress at all, but she was smiling like a flower in spring.

"This is the nicest gesture anyone has ever shown me. Thank you!" Her fingers fumbled with the carving exploring the gift and she drew the simple, but elegant sign again and again. "I would never have believed you to be a craftsman my lord, and that is why I will appreciate your present even more and bestow you my clemency."

She curtseyed and winked her long lashes at him. "Now I can truly say that I will miss all parts of Rohan. I suppose you and my father will end the negotiations today before we leave?" He nodded.

"Yes, although I must admit I wouldn't mind trading that meeting for a chance to take you around Edoras as I have noticed you haven't even seen it yet." She blushed and Éomer wondered why that simple reaction caused him to lust for a walk with her even more.

"That would be awfully nice, but your captain Edome has promised me that he would take me, because you had told him he wasn't needed at the assembly." Éomer found himself raging over the friend like if he had been a backstabber.

"I'll tell him to behave," he threatened and she chuckled.

"I see you at the fare well feast then." He felt terrible uneasy when Edome appeared offering the crook of his arm to the Princess who was wearing a dark green gown with golden seams. They looked almost as a newly married couple as she had crowned herself with a delicate garland of snowdrops and laughed at his jesting comments.

Lothíriel couldn't forget the medallion around her neck. She had to feel it at all times, just to make sure she hadn't imagined it. The Rohirric King had actually made an effort to win her over, and succeeded.

She could clearly see how much time he had put in the making of the symbol and she really liked the way the two lines formed a beautiful letter. Edome walked beside her and had no difficulties making her giggle as she was in a particularly splendid mood. She had to confess to herself that she was taking a friendly liking to the Lord of Horses. Not only had he taking in her critic with straight brow, but he had actually listened and straightened his back as well.

The city was humming with activity and she had to look at all the shops along the road and greet all the people who dared come close enough to her foreign shape.

"Is there somewhere you would especially like to go, milady?" Edome queried sounding a bit too formal and polite.

"Do you have a place where the bards fare?" she asked turning to follow a baker with his basket of neat breads with the green eyes.

"Yes it's near the centre of the craftsmen. A square in the west-end the poets and musicians have a stage where they frequently perform, it's not that far."

She smiled and told him to show the way. It didn't bother her that the lower parts of her skirt got dirty when they eagerly strode through the streets, from mud and the dust. Too occupied with the strange sights of houses and people some of her royal grace turned into childish clumsiness.

The captain was very attentive and kept her from stumbling most of the time. When they took a shortcut through a minor pathway Lothíriel suddenly stopped eying the infirmary sign over a white half-timbered house.

A man came running out with a wild look in his eyes and roaring like a crazy person. Edome pulled her backwards, but she broke loose and walked to the disturbed patient.

He was dressed in a white robe and had bandages on his arm. A couple of nurses came hurrying after him and quickly nailed him to the ground. The poor man howled like a suffering wolf and Lothíriel felt bad for him. He struggled to break free and even cried a bit when the woman yelled that he should calm down.

Slowly Lothíriel moved closer and he looked up at her with panic in voice and face. He was clearly in a great deal of pain. Gingerly Lothíriel kneeled down beside him the nurses shouting that she should go away, but she didn't hear them.

"You're making it worse! Oh lay still Bedros for god's sake." The man kept on crying loudly until Lothíriel reached down and cupped his cheeks.

"Hush my friend," she whispered so gently it would be a miracle if Bedros heard her through the screaming, but the second she touched him he went completely motionless as if she had exorcised a demon from his body.

The women dared not lose their grip, but when he remained quiet and just starred at the Gondorian lady's face they climbed off him. "Hello, my name is Lothíriel of Dol Amroth." Her voice lacked the tone of pity and judgement that most people talking to someone mentally ill often wore.

She offered him her hand and he took it, rising timidly from the cobbles. A whiff of pain shot through his eyes as he stood tall, but whatever immense hurting that had just possessed him was gone. Her slender hands held his carefully as she stroked them and led him back through the door from where he had come.

"You have the softest of touches." She smiled and he seemed unable to let go of the sight of her. The nurses showed her the way into a small chamber with only a bed and a desk. Sitting down he followed her.

"What is your name rider?" He tipped his head to the left while the nurses ran to get him a clean shirt.

"Bedros milady," he answered.

"Oh that means rock, are you as strong as your name implies?" His chest rose proudly and she saw that also here he wore a dressing.

"Maybe milady, I wouldn't know."

"Sure you would. Perhaps you would allow me to take a look at your wound?" His pale skin went paler.

"It is no use. It won't heal, and it hurts when you touch it."

"Is that why you ran out, because it hurts?" He nodded embarrassed as if the aching was no excuse to lose one's mind.

"I promise you, my hands are like feathers on your flesh."

Bedros looked temporarily worried but then exposed his soar breast. Lothíriel was used to dealing with wounded men, as the war had mercilessly presented her with bloody soldiers to last her a life time.

In the beginning she had spilled her breakfast on the floor when she had to cleanse the ripped leg of an archer, but after some weeks of intense contact with flesh bones and rivers of blood she had been toughened up. Now she was one of the prominent healers in Dol Amroth, although her father rarely allowed her to take advantage of this expertise.

Her sister had made her go into the kitchen and practise on chickens and lambs, to stand the sound of bones crushing and to see the water of the veins.

Lothíriel removed the white fabric tenderly and watched the unconquerable wound, which was almost green in the dim light. With trained fingers she washed it with the water the nurses brought her and Bedros never said a thing, but sat starring at her concentrated figure. When she patted the cut, she found, that it was as cold as ice.

"This must be almost unbearable. You're truly a brave man if you can stand such an agonising stab." He was biting his lip hard while she examined it, but since her hands were cool it had a soothing affect on him. "How do the nurses treat this?" His breath was ragged as he replied.

"Three times a day it's washed with an herbal infusion, to maintain its cleanness and keep it from getting worse. I have to drink all sorts of bitter teas." She gaped.

"That's all? Have they tried sewing it together?"

"Once but the string rots before it can mend properly. It's like the cut has some sort of acid in it."

"Would you let me try something a little different?" He looked concerned.

"What would that be?" She smiled like it was a joke.

"I am going to cut out the wound and then stitch it together with something inside." The nurse behind her sneezed and Bedros looked at her.

"Could it work?" he questioned the caretaker.

"Not likely. It's possible that you could bleed to death instead." The man thought for a while.

"Have anyone tried it?" She moved uneasy admitting that no one had. "I put my life into your hands, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth."

A room had been prepared and Bedros placed on a raised desk. Lothíriel had requested all the necessary tools, among others a knife, warm and cold water and a lot of plants most of which was considered weeds.

Edome had said nothing ever since Lothíriel had silenced Bedros outside the house. She had agreed to let him inside the chamber during the surgery and he now sat on a chair preparing a pipe with some dried leaves as Lothíriel had demanded. When he was done she entered the room dressed in a simple white woollen dress and with bare feet. Lighting the pipe she handed it to Bedros and told him to smoke it all. Edome who couldn't figure out the purpose, but soon he saw that the patient started to smile and look sleepy.

"What is that tobacco?"

"A very strong drug," she answered briefly before picking up the knife and removing the dressing.

Now she could see, in light from the window, that the lesion was in fact green. Carefully she placed an accurate slash in the skin and made a fine ring around the wound. With a towel soaked in something disinfecting she dug the blade deep underneath the wound.

The nurses stood beside her paying strict attention to the experiment. It wasn't a deep cut, but it was still very painful and even in his sleepy condition he wrenched violently as she sliced off the contaminated flesh. Quickly holding the cloth to the bleeding wound she asked one of the nurses to hold the needle into the flame.

While this was done, Lothíriel took the pulpy mush of herbs and gently put it into the cut. Her fingers were slowly turning red with his blood and even Edome could see that they had to act fast to safe him.

Lothíriel grabbed the needle with the thread made from tendons from foals and hastily pierced the skin. Like it was just another one of her embroideries she finished the job. Soon Bedros was only bleeding slightly and although he was all white in the face his halfway opened eyes were no longer glassy. Lothíriel dried her hands and turned to the nurses.

"Keep on cleaning him twice a day and making him drink the tea. In a week the wound should be almost healed, then you pinch open a small hole and suck out the herbs I have put inside of him and stitch him back op."

The women didn't quite know what to say and they just watched Bedros astonished as Lothíriel took the green flesh and walked to the hearth. When she cast it on the fire a foul smell spread in the room. She bowed down and picked up something from among the coals with the knife and rotated so the others could see what she was carrying.

"Look, a splinter of a Morgûl sword. I bet this was the reason he couldn't heal completely and it was too small to notice right away, especially in a river of blood. If you open the other men, like I did Bedros, I am sure you'll find similar pieces of dark metal. Then they will, if they have the strength, return to former glory."

Edome didn't even bother to hide his grin. The ridiculously young woman had just found the answer to the problem the nurses had been wrestling with for years, even arguing that maybe simply cutting of the legs would work.

Lothíriel went back to the rider and kissed his forehead. "Tell him that I wish him all the luck in the world," she breathed and then wavered at the Rohirric captain as if she had just finished shopping for a trinket for her sister back home and wished to move on. With a mocking _good day_ to the women of the infirmary he placed his proud hand on the small of her back and led her gingerly out the chamber.

When she had dressed to her ordinary gown she looked absolutely exhausted and Edome decided, against her will, to take her back for resting at Meduseld.

"You did splendid today princess. I simply can't believe you did that." She smiled shyly.

"I just tried to help the poor man. I couldn't stand seeing him suffer and I have some experience with dealing with magical injuries." The Rohirric gave her hand a small squeeze.

"Rohan owes you milady. You deserve to be waited on hands and feet." She shook her head.

"That will not be necessary."

Éomer sat with his palms pressed together, looking rather content. Imrahil was laughing while trying to make the quill obey and with his hand placed firmly on the small bunch of papers lying ready to be signed.

They had been going through it for hours, correcting minor errors and once more discussing the amount of men one should send if the other was attacked. Imrahil was worried that the current number was insufficient, but Éomer assured him that each of his riders was the match of four orcs or six common men in battle. The Gondorian prince agreed, having seen and talked with many Rohirrics in the past week and witnessed their skills, but still he was concerned. In the end his captains had convinced him, that the offer was adequate and he had settled.

Now the prince was signing the contract with curvy letters on both copies and Éomer was waiting for the wax to melt so he could also add his mark. The symbol of the revenue stamp was a prancing stallion and was his royal signature as they had no letters to write their names. The Rohirric and Gondorian captains got up and cheered when Éomer finally marked the documents and shook hands with Imrahil.

"For peace!" the men cried and emptied their drink.

"For peace," the two lords echoed.

Éomer was about to leave the assembly room to join the merry dinner party being started in the great hall, but Imrahil held him back, while the others left the chamber.

"My friend, I have a special request and offer in the spirit of this alliance." Éomer reckoned the talk would last a while and sat down on one of the heavy chairs around the table.

"Speak," he challenged and the lord sat down opposite him.

"I am very keen on making you understand how much I am willing to sacrifice on this union. Rohan will be our ally as long as I shall live, but I wish to bind us even closer. I wish to be your brother." Éomer gawked at the prince, but said nothing as Imrahil continued diffidently.

"I have wondered how this could come true, and I must admit it has been easier liking you than I had imagined. You are a good ruler, Lord Éomer. You are virtuous and strong, a man after my head. This is why I am offering you what I have offered no one before, the greatest gem of my principal. I would be delighted if you would choose my daughter Lothíriel as your wife."

Éomer halfway expected Imrahil to burst into laughter and poking him in the ribs as he told him what a great joke he had just made, but the prince was severe and silent. Realizing that he could not stay quiet, Éomer rose and walked to the window.

"You are very kind, my friend. Princess Lothíriel is a fine woman."

"The finest," Imrahil interrupted.

"Yes," Éomer confirmed feeling trapped. "Marrying her sure would be a privilege I should truly benefit from, but it is very sudden, this proposal. Is she even interested?" Éomer found himself remembering that she had looked none too reluctant when presented with his gift earlier.

"My daughter will gladly consent in being wed to you, as she has always ever desired to do the best for her country." The Gondorian prince seemed most certain of this, and Éomer had to admit that the grey eyes did bear witness to this statement.

"She would not miss her home? What I can offer is far from the glories existence she has formerly known, even though I am a king." Éomer knew that his city and house was somewhat primitive in comparison to the palace of Dol Amroth, which was said to be as impressing as Minas Tirith, if not more.

"Lothíriel, however refined she may be, is a simple woman, who never really fancied the complicated reality of a Gondorian lady. I have spoiled her with presents that she never really cared for and she always preferred singing without the musicians of the court to accompany her. I am not saying that she would make a bad queen. She would be flawless, but she is not as demanding as it may appear."

Éomer had difficulties making up any more excuses although he was very disinclined to just give up on his choice of being a bachelor for yet some years, at least until he had sorted out his own life.

"I'll give you some time to consider as I realize how unusual this suggestion is. But please, I will need an answer before we leave." Imrahil rose and left unhurried. Éomer stayed to mull over the idea.

He knew she was an excellent candidate to the title of queen, but could she fit him as a wife? Just a week ago when eyeing her for the first time the thought actually had crossed his mind, but as Éomer did not care to be bound by anyone, and when taking into consideration that he already was bound to an entire country, he wondered if he could stand having a woman in his life.

Éomer had of course had his share of female companions, though it had never been serious. As a young man running around with Théodred, he had been the one known for hunting women, but as he got older, the game became uninteresting as it was always the same kind of women and outcome.

Having the title of the future third Marshall of Rohan back then, no girl resisted him for long and they were nice to lie beside or kiss, but they never really interested him during conversations.

Éomer felt like Lothíriel and the mystery of her was almost bottomless and it was not likely that he would end up tiring with her. Still he thought of how it was possible that a stately lady like her could ever care for someone like him and if could he care for her. However, he had to admit that her, if not beautiful, then special appearance, was enchanting and that his eyes had sought the curve of her hip more than once, when his mind was wandering unconsciously.

And was she not a worthy counterpart of good blood as his advisors always pointed out was important? She was pleasant to be with, when she was relaxed and not under the scrutinizing watch of her father and she was polite and intelligent. The age difference wouldn't matter much, he reckoned. Éomer imagined teaching her of how to survive in the mark and maybe even give her some weapon skills.

It wouldn't be difficult at all kissing and seducing her, as he had felt the effect she had on his body when she was dancing. Suddenly happy that such a perfect solution had come to him, he rose to join the feast in the hall.

Imrahil patted at the desk to the left, to indicate that he wanted Éomer to come to him. The Gondorian Prince could not hide a big smile as he read the friend's face.

"Oh joy, lord Éomer," he exclaimed. "I am very pleased." The others around them started looking curiously at the cliquishness and tried to guess what the fuzz was all about. Imrahil ignored the crowd conscientiously and welcomed his ally with a bear hug. Whispering clumsily into Éomer's ear, Imrahil promised to announce the decision when Lothíriel showed up. Edome was standing nearby looking less meddlesome than the rest, but Éomer knew only too well that the captain was sharp and ready in case he had the change to pick up a sign of his king's intentions. When Éomer called upon him he responded immediately as expected.

"Why has the princess not arrived yet? Did something happen on your walk?" The man looked rather smug as he answered.

"You wouldn't even believe me if I told you, but the princess is fine. She'll be out soon."

"Try me," he dared the captain.

"Well we were walking of the west road aiming for the Thráldor area, when…"

"She's here," Imrahil disrupted and waved at her fondly. The captain withdrew leaving the story untold and Éomer annoyed.

Lothíriel sailed over the floor in another dress than the one she was wearing in the morning. He couldn't help thinking her a bit vain using two gowns on the same day. Nonetheless she looked majestic as always, smiling at the riders and greeting the Gondorians in her own language. It occurred to him that he had not yet heard her speak in the foreign tongue and the sound was a little disturbing.

"Daughter," Imrahil called and something in the way she halted told Éomer that she was sensing something in the father's voice that she didn't care for. Éomer rose and went down to offer her his arm. His sister emerged from a second door and Imrahil rushed to accompany her as well.

"What stunning womenfolk to feast with us," a Gondorian captain commented. Éomer recognized him as the fourth in command, Wilftrin, who always had a droll remark ready. The other men agreed with him and Éomer shot angry eyes at one group in particular, who was nearly drooling. The four royals stopped in front of their chairs and all but Imrahil seated.

"Today is a special day. Not only have we officially become allies, but something wonderful is waiting ahead. I proudly declare Éomer son of Éomund for my brother and grant him the hand of my beautiful beloved daughter, Lothíriel. That is if she'll have him," he winked ironically and the soldiers burst into laughter and mannish grunting. Éomer grinned like the others, for he was a man of the people.

Lothíriel had gone ashen white. What had just happened? She hated nightmares like this, where she had no control and nothing went the way she wanted it to. She wasn't going to marry the King of Rohan; she almost laughed at the idea and didn't even notice how Éomer pulled her up unto her feet as her body had gone completely numb.

She had to wake up. She had to shake this bad dream off. Why couldn't she open her eyes? Her father was standing next to them now granting a goblet of wine to the King of Rohan who drank avariciously.

Only when the bitter fluid touched her own tongue she realized with horror that she wasn't sleeping and instantly a wrath so gruesome, that Sauron himself would have wrenched back from it, struck her with its iron fist. Abruptly she flung the glass out of her father's hands and shouted so even Éowyn was startled.

"I will not marry Lord Éomer!" The great hall went deadly silent and Éomers face had grown stiff. Her father looked as if he now thought he was dreaming and looked miffed as if someone was bantering him. Lothíriel stood quivering with sustained emotions and waited for someone to cough so she could split open their head.

Éomer could not move. Why did she oppose him? Why did she not want to marry him? He had not acted wrong towards her in a way that had earned him such disgrace. He had been so certain of himself that he had not really considered her reaction to the declaration and now he stood humiliated like a common young boy being rejected by a little girl that he wasn't even sure he wanted. Imrahil became the one to break the silence.

"Daughter you have no right…" Éomer was very aware that this was not the words he would have chosen. He had actually, in spite of his character and his logic, wanted to beg her, and he knew that both solutions were doomed.

"Have no right?!" It was remarkable what a deep voice she got when angered, not at all squeaky as expected from a woman her size.

"I am the one who is dishonoured here. Did you actually think you would get away with this? You are selling me off like a horse with no saying in the course of my own life. I regret ever complying with your idiotic plan. To think, that I actually thought that you would keep your promise. This is despicable! You told me that I would get to choose myself and we made a deal."

She pointed her trembling finger at Imrahil while yelling, leaving everybody no less confused. Turning to Éomer he eyes only narrowed further.

"And you," she hissed mockingly. "How dare you think that just because you gave me some abysmal gift you think that you have paid your woman fair and square? I thought the King of Rohan would at least have the decency to ask me himself, instead of practically shoving the bridal cup down my throat thinking, that perhaps she won't notice or she might just like it, but I'll tell you something:"

She paused in her, all too quick, river of malice overfloating the poor innocent lips just to breath in, preparing for another attack.

"This princess will not be bought like a donkey on the fair waiting humbly to face a life of carrying its master's burdens of hedonism and self-righteousness, no I will not stand to be treated like an animal, though I know very well that this is how you see us women, even if we have strengths that you will never know. I hope you find yourself a queen who will put up with your ignorance and stupidity, for I will most certainly not master Éomer. I treasure peace as much as anyone in this room, but I am not a part of the deal. I am not a war-slave destined to spend my life chained up to a man like dog to a pole just because you think helping each other and the peoples aren't enough. So if you will excuse me I will leave this house and not return until the day a star comes to earth, which is never, and I shall support the alliance from Dol Amroth where no one is trying to marry me off to a man I hardly know."

She turned on her heel so her skirt stood like a dragon's wing after her and she tore open the door not looking back. The hushed sound of Theldy's feet as she proudly followed her mistress was the only sound for a long time.

Lothíriel had not given her father a single chance to correct her and all the men stood feeling silly and embarrassed for laughing at Imrahil's joke about her willingness. The worst part of the situation was that everyone knew that she was right and at the same time she had acted with so scandalous and disrespectful to the Rohirric King and the alliance that everyone had just frozen in their pose, not knowing how to react.

Éowyn, whom everybody knew was agreeing with Lothíriel in this matter, rose and gazed at the scenery. Then she slowly patted her brother lovingly on the shoulder, as if she knew where she had to put her loyalty, even if it felt wrong to her. The words sounded awful in her mouth and everyone could see how bitter she found them.

"Women, they are as moody as the sky," she breathed overbearingly causing the crowd to moan consentingly and then slowly start smiling.

The soldiers ended up laughing like it had all been an entertaining play, and Éowyn tried hiding her revulsion when the two leaders joined in.

She had saved her brother from total degradation, but she had sold her dignity as a woman. Sending her brother an eloquent stare she sat down gracefully and saying a "let's dine," before drinking a heavy mass of vine to cleanse her participation off.

Éomer grabbed his fork too, and looked at her with the most gratitude a brother could ever show her sister. She ignored it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - When war approaches

Lothíriel sat behind Daemyn trying not to meet the eyes of the soldiers around her. Her guard had already displayed his allegiance and since no other Gondorian felt as comfortable as to express his opinion on the matter, she stuck close to Daemyn. Her father had not scolded her like she had anticipated and when she callously asked him why, he replied wryly that her little comical disturbance was already forgotten.

Even though it enraged her to hear that he disregarded her feelings as if they were just a part of a play, she decided to go with the stubborn silence over hysterical disputing. She demanded Daemyn to ride far back in the procession so she wouldn't have to look at her father and his obnoxious face.

She knew he was angry, but she had no regrets. Still she was relieved that her outburst had not effected the terms of the alliance. The contracts were not altered and more importantly, they were not destroyed.

Lothíriel was pleased that Theldy had chosen to come along with her, though she predicted that the down-to-earth-girl would soon begin to miss her home and maybe even regret. Lothíriel had made it very clear to her that she could return at any time, but the sweet Rohirric maiden was childishly stern.

Lothíriel leaned a little closer to her rider in the need of some comfort. What she had done was most irresponsible and she would have gone back, apologized and even accepted the proposal if her performance had to be paid with the new friendship between the nations. She would not be the reason for any more deaths. Exceedingly happy that this was not the case, she had only grown stronger in her believe that she was the victim in another one of the men's conspiracies. Keen on forgetting the entire stay in Rohan, but still punishing Imrahil for his betrayal, Lothíriel kept to herself the rest of the journey and when they reached Dol Amroth, she went straight to her safe chambers and locked all but Theldy out.

Two months had passed since the awkward proposal and the King of Rohan was feeling worse than ever. To get a break from the buzz in Edoras he had gone riding. Éomer rode Firefoot so hard that the stallion, in spite of being the strongest horse in Edoras, was dripping with sweat when he got to the waterfalls near the timber line. The horse frowned while he dismounted, but he couldn't concentrate on it. Stripping from all his clothes he jumped into the early-summer-cold water without even a sound of dismay with the chill. He was angry. Not at her, not at Éowyn and not at Imrahil. Éomer was angry with himself. Most of all he wanted to completely forget that Lothíriel had ever been in Edoras, and just rejoice at the alliance, but he couldn't.

After eight weeks of quiet anguish, the emotions had finally caught up with his self-control and he had left the city in the middle of his daily dealings feeling like he was going to blow. Éomer thought of what had happened at the fare well dinner and at Lothíriel with her multicoloured eyes.

He had seen the many good reasons for marrying the princess, and even Éowyn had to agree with him that the girl would made a suiting bride after the sister had calmed down. Éowyn had been very upset with him for not consulting both Lothíriel and herself before announcing the engagement. She had not spoken to him in days, just shouting orders at his poor servants. Two days before Éowyn was meant to go back to Ithilien, she had however, taken pity on him and offered some comfort. She argued that the girl was not stunning when it came to appearance, but rather normal and she told him that a queen would have to be perfect in every way. Not to mention the temper. To Éowyn a steel heart didn´t do you any good if it still let to inappropriate outbursts when the emotions got too great to ignore. Also this foreign princess seemed, in spite of this marble character, to be rather childish and careless of her clothing. Éowyn had seen her walk with Edome through the city and she had not made any effort to lift her skirts even the slightest as an ordinary Rohirric woman did. "Besides, your men's admiration of her is probably caused by nothing but the mystery of her foreignness, for it was not like she took time to talk with them. Altogether, you can see that she is not at all adaptable to the Mark or the role of a queen," his sister had concluded with tight lips. Her complaints about Lothíriel flaws put him in a better mood for a time.

Now Éowyn was gone too, and Éomer was all too aware of the silence in the house to ignore the restored void in his life. Deep inside, beneath his pride, he felt the slightest longing to get the Gondorians back. No he was lying to himself again; he was yearning for them to come back, and for her to forgive him. Stupid!

Éomer had gone through a period of denial, resisting his own conscience telling him that he was in fact the one to blame. In vain he had fought to convince his mind that he was the humiliated one, but in the end he knew she was right and he loved her for it. Éomer had, when he considered the situation once more thoroughly, actually been disappointed if she had consented.

Éomer had seen the part of her which was free and spirited, although she hid it well and he felt that this was the side of her that he respected the most. If only he could bring her back without having to invite her father, so that he could get behind the shell and discover what he knew was luring under the surface.

Rejecting the idea, with the remembrance of her terminating words of goodbye, he climbed back up from the lake and lay down in the grass. It was almost certain that he would never get to see her ever again and maybe this was for the best. After all she had been quite a mouthful.

Edome kept referring to her, though Éomer had indicated more than once, that he had no interest in hearing another word of her. The captain had pretended not to see his master's signals and repeated his praises again and again. His other riders, though seemed to quickly forget the princess and talked more often of the new friendships they had formed and of the great relief that was the alliance.

Éomer dozed off with the sun warming his body. It was aching from the lack of pauses in between his training program. The drums of war became less subtle every day now and his scouts constantly brought ill news from the south-east.

Éomer was not the king to hope that the battle would not come to Rohan. He knew that it was only a matter of time. Just the day before a messenger came running down to the field where they were practising their weapon skills with reports of Easterlings burning off a farm in Gondor.

It may have seemed as the doing of a simple group of bandits, but it was the first unofficial declaration of war and everybody knew. Families from all around Rohan were already wandering towards Helm's Deep, and he had not even ordered the people to go. Yet it was a smart move and though not wanting to spread the panic he did nothing to prevent the refugees from seeking to the old fortress. When the Easterlings entered Rohan he would give the command anyway, and it certainly helped if a lot of them already had been brought to safety.

Éomer's muscles were still sore from the constant training. He had not really used his body so roughly since the War of the Ring, but it felt relieving to finally occupying his thoughts with something beneficial. Not to mention how good he always felt after working until he was soaked in sweat and aching, all men breathing ragged and he was proud. The éored was fierce and devoted, although they were still far fewer than they had been just five years ago.

He decided to ride home not at all calm and cleansed from the various thoughts hunting him, but also not willing to spend more time on them than absolutely necessary.

***

She loved this time of year. The royal gardens were ever so beautiful. The men keeping the bushes and planting flowers made sure that there were different colours all year and that the brown ground was never exposed. Kind of like her. Her father and maidens always wanted to cover up what was her. Of course her father appreciated her own self as well, but he was always keen on being a good leader and a good man and so he sometimes wanted more of her than she could give in the name of Gondor. She had reconciled with him, as he was dear to her, and she could not stay mad at him for long. Imrahil had even decided to make an apology-like statement at the court in her direction, saying that he had done everything to win the friendship of the Rohirric king, "perhaps too much," he had added with a glimpse in the eye for his counsellors, but a soothing look at her and Lothíriel had nodded in acceptance. He did love her and she him. He wouldn't be the same without his fierce passion for the wellbeing of his nation that sometimes led him to rushed decisions; in fact that was what characterized him the best.

This month the flowers were white as the frost that had just vanished. The earth was like a fertile soft breast feeding her milk to the beasts and birds and Lothíriel imagined that she was a wild doe jumping happily over the carpet of snowdrops. Surely such a deer would be less worried and less distressed than she.

She had been present when her father received the messenger from Rohan. An army from the East was on the move and for a long time she had feared that Gondor would be the first target. When the Rohirric courier arrived she had been both comforted and terrified with the news he brought them. The Haradrim, as the army of the easterlings were called, had not set its eye on Gondor, but Rohan.

This meant that a battle was now very close and her brothers were all preparing to take off with the amount of men that the regulations of the alliance requested.

Her sister, Amlin, was calm as always, but had however decided to come to Dol Amroth, from the village where she usually lived, to support her relatives. Lothíriel was very fond of the younger woman, who never failed to put things into perspective and frequently shared her opinion of how to solve the mess. The little sister was a strong young character and Lothíriel sometimes felt clumsy and weak in comparison. Amlin had everything under control, including her hair and war tactics, and only her tongue had the tendency to act out. If you wanted an inconvenient truth she was the one to tell you. She likened the Slayer of the Witch King much more than Lothíriel did, and she could not help but to envy the little sister. Usually Lothíriel would even take the part of the hostess of one of the royal feasts only so that Amlin wouldn't do it and brag about how perfect she had made it all. The sisters certainly loved each other, but they were also rivals as it is with most siblings. Lothíriel wondered if she would have gone directly to war, had she had the skills of Amlin.

While her sister eagerly attended the regular discussions at court about what to do and how to do it, Lothíriel had withdrawn from the lot and spent her mornings walking in the city and the gardens whereas in the afternoons she was working on her appointed assignment of updating the dictionaries.

Imrahil seemed exhausted with trying to fix a husband for her and now he had relieved her of her duties in the house so she didn't even have to practise her skills as a future wife. Her sister would never oblige to running the castle so her father had arranged for one of the ladies of the court to act as a housekeeper in Lothíriel's stubborn absence.

On one level she was horribly ashamed of the way she had acted in front of the entire Rohirric éored and the Gondorians as well. It would have been much more elegant just to refuse the proposal later explaining slowly and dignified. Also she felt guilty for exposing the treaty to danger in that impolite manner. She was so embarrassed that she refused to show her face in the ruling assembly of Dor-en-Ernil or Gondor anymore. Lothíriel had another idea, one that would fulfil all of her present needs.

If she joined the warriors in the delegation aiming for Helms Deep, in the profession of a common healer she could make up for her mistake, get far away from Imrahil, (whose presence she still felt was pressing was her to the ground, cutting her wings) and she could prove that women weren't at all as fragile as both her father and men in general seemed to believe. If the tale of Lady Éowyn would not convert them, it just meant that they had to see examples like that again and again until they got the message. Éowyn was a free woman, and a magnificent warrior. Healing was Lothíriel's ability and it could soon come in handy if the Easterlings were as many as the rumours spoke. Feeling certain that she wanted to be at Helm's Deep when all hell broke loose, she started packing the obligatory tools. Her father would not allow it and she was aware that she would have to spite him once more and run away from home. Luckily her younger brother, Amrothos, was very fond of her and always willing to help. It had been difficult to convince him that she was capable of going and that she merely would be helping out, not putting herself in danger by fighting, but in the end he had agreed to help her. It would be a complete waste to try and win over Elphir, their eldest brother, but if she could only get as far as Helms Deep on her own, Amrothos had agreed to talk to the others about letting her stay. Surely she stood a better chance of getting her way, if she was already there, where their father no longer was in charge.

Theldy told her that it was stupid and dangerous and so Lothíriel didn't tell Amlin, out of fear that the sister might agree with the lady-in-waiting. The Rohirric Theldy had proved to fit quite well in the halls of Dol Amroth and had gained a prouder posture. Lothíriel was glad for her, but she started feeling alone again, as the halls did not at all fit her own mind. At least Theldy's foreignness had made them compatible for a while.

Lothíriel was walking on her own along the wall of the city scarcely greeting the scattered guards on her way. The eternal sea breeze was wonderfully chilly in the warm early summer and she had her black hair gathered on the top of the head with the tiny hairpins so the neck could fully enjoy the kisses of the wind. She could see the training area of the warriors where the men where sweating concentrated.

She knew how to defend herself and she was decent with a bow. She knew that she could work fast, long and hard under terrible conditions and if only she was placed inside the entrenchment of Helms Deep she could easily benefit the Rohirrics in battle. Besides, she had, ever since the Rohirric king threw her on the kitchen table in anger, lusted to see him in action. See him in the environment where he really belonged.

After asking around discretely, she found however, that no healers was bound to join the Gondorian delegation to Helm's Deep and she had to find another way to ride with the forces undiscovered. When Theldy began laughing at the insanity of her intentions, she jested with Lothíriel dressing up like a soldier and hide in the big group of armoured men. Lothíriel did not scold the girl for joking because she knew that dressing up was exactly the answer. Theldy was crying bitterly for Lothíriel and herself as her mistress made her cut off the long black hair to make it look manlier and reject the idea of lending a chainmail from anyone so Lothíriel had to go spend money on having one made.

With no idea what to actually expect from the chaos of war Lothíriel was still determined to escape the city, who appeared more like a set of chains holding her to the ground, than the safe wings on which she ought to fly. She sneaked out of her champers before sunset on the day of departure.

Helms deep lay where it had always done in the west of Rohan near the gap of Rohan, which was a broad passage leading in between the White Mountains to Dunland and the fortress of Isengard. Éomer had not set foot here since the War of the Ring, when he fought the orcs of Saruman. His sister had sent him a long letter that clearly stated what dark days were now approaching them. Éowyn apologized for not being able to stand at his side, but she was now too pregnant to be at any use. She promised to name at least one of her children after him and to take care of Rohan in case he died. It was her duty, but Éomer almost was offended by the last remark.

While reading the letter it occurred to him that he didn't want her to take over the throne in Meduseld, though she was most likely to do an excellent job. He wanted one of his own to succeed him, a son or a daughter. His evident loneliness struck him hard and he understood what deep psychological need had made him accept Imrahil's offer to marry Lothíriel. He desired someone close to him, anyone. Éomer had always been a dualistic man. While he was very fond of people and devoted himself fully to the fellow-feeling of the éored, he also was a loner that enjoyed the silence and security of solitude. His big temper sometimes made it difficult for him to interact with someone that reminded very little of him.

Still, with the letter in his hand, it became clear that what he wanted the most was something in between. A small group, which was like him, but still different to make things interesting that was what he was dreaming of, or in fewer words; he wanted a family. This was not the time to start worrying about such trivialities though and he buried the yearning for a time.

Éomer was discouraged to see the condition of his people gathered in the grey hold. He could still smell the suffering of the last war on their bodies and saw the hopelessness in their eyes. His marshal Edome had dedicated all his time to raise the spirit in the men and families, expecting these conditions to play an imperative part in the outcome of the battle.

The only truly wonderful thing that Éomer had been presented with in the week of preparations was Bedros miracle. He had not taking the time to go visit the infirmary since Imrahil accompanied him and therefore he knew nothing of Lothíriel's heroic surgery until suddenly one day Bedros came riding to Helms Deep with a satisfied smile. The old friend was not at all fit for fight after having lain in bed for so long, but he insisted in playing some kind of part and so Éomer had ordered him to rediscover his forgotten archer skills. He could now find the friend at all times by the straw target training lawn, where he with a focused mind decisively fired one arrow after another.

Éomer was told that Lothíriel was the cause of the recovery of many good men and was for some strange reason not surprised. He felt great gratitude towards her and was then even more ashamed that he had practically tricked her into marrying him. This slipped his mind however, the very moment the delegation from Dol Amroth appeared in the horizon. The relief of seeing that Imrahil kept his promise filled him with hope once more and he shouted so that the whole of the keep heard it.

"The Gondorians has come!"

Edome came running out of the caves as if he didn't believe it and hurried to the walls. Reaching his lord the marshal sighed.

"We will make it my king. With the force of the Rohirric and the accuracy of the Gondorians this battle is ours. In any case it will not be the same as the last time we were here. The wall is rebuild and stronger than before and a larger path of escape has been carved into the mountains."

Éomer nodded pensively and leaned forth to see the improvements where Saruman had left his mark.

"It will hold," he reckoned. "The Easterlings will outnumber us, but they know not that the Gondorians are on our side and the weaknesses are all erased. They are sure to think that when Saruman almost crushed us then that means they actually can. The easterlings have little respect for the power of the wizards and believes themselves to be pure strength. Their pride will kill them."

They headed for the stables to ride out and greet the newcomers and Éomer noted contentedly that the women were readying the pitfalls outside the gates on the field. It was Edome's invention to dig dozens of holes in the ground placing pointy spikes at the bottom and disguise them with grass. If they had to ride out with the horses it would be easier just shoving the enemies down in the wholes instead of having to engage in sword fighting with them. The issue of knowing where the holes were, so that no Rohirric would fall into them had been solved by placing the holes in a specific pattern that everybody from Gondor or Rohan would remember, a horse with a horn in the forehead. Once a long time ago Rohan and Gondor was actually one land, until Eorl the young came to the aid of the Gondorian steward, Cirion, hence the Rohirric was given the north eastern area, Calenardhon, to live in and they renamed it Rohan. The past symbol of Rohan was a unicorn when the land was still a principal, until Eorl changed it to a horse. So therefore the traps followed the supposedly forgotten silhouette of a unicorn.

Éomer had worn his leather armour for almost six days, mostly to display his readiness, but as much as he loved feeling and smelling it again, it wasn't exactly comfortable. His pawns had done a good job with the padding so at least it wasn't chafing his skin. His sword Gútwinë had been sharpened and hung on his right, shining dangerously. The moment he had attached the weapon to the belt he felt whole again. This was what he did best, fighting like the spirit of Mandos* had possessed him.

They reached the Gondorians where the eldest brother and heir to the title, Elphir, greeted them warmheartedly. Imrahil, of course, couldn't join the princes as Gondor had its own problems and could not be left unattended.

"My brother, King Éomer, at last we meet." The prince was dressed in his blue armour and looked handsome and stern. Imrahil bore little resemblance to this boy, especially because he was so light in the skin and hair, but also because Éomer recognized a warrior's look in the dark eyes which could not be found with the Gondorian prince.

"You know not how happy I am to see you here, friend," Éomer answered just as affectionately. The two men grabbed each other's wrist and shook them energized.

"Meet my brothers Erchirion and Amrothos." He signalled to two younger men behind him who moved closer and bowed courteously. "We all come to stand with you." Éomer was surprised at the good faith Imrahil showed him by sending all the heirs of the principal.

"I thank you all sincerely," Éomer declared solemnly and then burst into a big smile. "Let's us get you inside and have you settled. Tonight there's no danger and we'll drink together as comrades." The three royal sons seemed equally happy at the thought of a drink and the men behind them started banging their swords against their shields as to prove their gratitude. His own men answered by lifting their horns and blowing fiercely.

Lothíriel sat in the back of the crowd on an exhausted little pony that the Rohirrics would surely laugh hard and long at, if only the situation hadn't been so tense, when everybody broke into delightful yelling. She didn't participate, though she was very tempted, as her voice would be all too revealing in the midst of the loud roaring.

It was difficult enough keeping her identity to herself even now that her hair was much shorter and the breasts hidden inside a chainmail. Mingling with the soldiers had proven hard as she found that she had to sleep eat and wash with them. The men surrounding her seemed to think that she was just some shy young boy that didn't like company or even talking.

Theldy was her cover back home. The maid was to forbid anybody to enter her rooms, bring a meal there three times a day and eat it herself. The girl had been very reluctant to help and Lothíriel wondered how long she would stand out before someone persistent, like her father or her dreadful cousin pulled it out of the poor maiden. It wasn't entirely fair to leave the girl with such a responsibility that, if her father made the wrong conclusions could result in beheading if her absence was discovered. Every day since the journey began Lothíriel had feared the arrival of the envoys in case they brought the news of her disappearance. If they did it wouldn't take her brothers long to reckon that she was hiding among their men and she would be discovered.

It hadn't been easy getting out of the castle in the first place. It was as if her father had anticipated her escape, because there were lookouts all over the grounds. She had been forced to put on her full armour to get past all the guards and it had been a terrible ride both for her, and the pony she had stolen, in the radiating sun heavy with steel. Furthermore she wasn't able to ride as often as she would like to due to the watchful eye of Imrahil, so she was aching practically everywhere when the sun set and they halted.

They slept under the open sky, because they were too heavily equipped for the horses to carry any luxuries, such as tents. Lothíriel wasn't used to the hard life of the soldiers, not washing every day and she suffered many times from simple mistakes such as forgetting to refill her water sack before riding on in the morning or securing the saddle properly. The nasty smell from the sweaty men was accompanied by their dirty speech concerning mostly women. Most of it was boasting of course, but it didn't make the coarse language any better.

All together it was not as glories as she had expected, but none of it daunted her. Certain that she could handle anything that her scrawny older brother Amrothos could, she didn't give in. Amrothos was the youngest of her brothers and the kindest. He was a buffoon, always making her and Amlin laugh and they used to fight for fun before he got too strong. Lothíriel thought of him and his banter as the rain had poured down on her one cold night. Her legs were muddy and she reminded herself that she had been longing to have dirty clothes since her caretaker had denied her the joy of playing outside when it was raining at the age of five. Now she was free and that was what mattered.

It was reassuring to finally be there though and the sun had been plenty generous the last two days making her forget the previous wet nights with no sleep at all. The happiness was transparent all around her as the men talked of a large cup of ale and a dry place to rest. The fact that they were on the land of an earlier enemy didn't seem to bother them at all, especially not when they eyed the pretty blond women waiting with bread and beer. Lothíriel felt her heart skip a beat every time she saw someone she knew. The sight of her brothers made her lower her neck giving her an almost birdlike appearance that made some of the other soldiers look at her with amusement.

The Deeping-wall was an impressive construction of men and the fact that nature's high cliffs was surrounding it and blocking out the sunshine made it even more powerful to face. The ravine leading in between the mountains behind the fortress looked as if it could be the entrance to the underworld itself and Lothíriel would have been shaking with fear to go in there if she didn't know that it contained only the most beautiful of sparkling caves. She moved with the flow of people up the cause way to the stronghold and had to lay her head back to get full impression of the sanctuary or the scene of her first battle ever. She caught herself hoping that it wouldn't be her last. Even if healers weren't meant to fight, they could of course be forced into doing it if the enemy breached the walls.

One man she had not expected to see was the Lord of Horses, but out of the blue the Rohirric king emerged. She was struck with the memory of her disgraceful performance and felt the heat spreading in her cheeks. She was petrified that he might recognize her and still she couldn't move an inch.

He looked mightier than she had ever seen him. The back was straight and strong and he was skimming over the troops trying to calculate their strength. The golden hair was lighter from the sun and the armour fitted him so well it looked as if he was born into it. One moment his sharp eye caught her round refined shape, but then she regained her free will and dived into the anonymity of the crowd.

Éomer shook his head deciding that a refreshing sip of water might do him some good. In a second he thought he saw her tiny little presence in the middle of the soldiers streaming through the Hornburg-gates, but obviously it couldn't be. It was probably just his mind playing with his sight again. There were so many dark-haired persons passing him that it apparently was easy to picture her face as he remembered it. It did feel good to see her though. To see that of her face with the green eyes, deeply emotional with some sort of feeling almost bursting out like tears. He recalled the little necklace he had made for her and wondered if she was still carrying it with her or if she had thrown it away like the idea of marrying him.

Éomer squished his legs together and Firefoot paced up through the street to the citadel.

The three brothers from Dol Amroth were passing the time in the royal hall talking with Erkenbrand about the options of defence. Éomer didn't like meeting the enemy at the Deeping-wall as he believed an attack to be the best defence in this case. If they could kill as many Easterlings as possible before luring them into the ravine and directly towards the pitfalls they would have caused a lot of damage before the real battle of defence began. When Théoden and Éomer had fought the orcs of Saruman an attack from the western ridge of the valley down the steep slopes with Erkenbrand in command, had been one of the reasons the Hornburg hadn't fallen. It was Éomers plan to repeat the success and send a small group up there to wait and attack when signalled; preferably in the midst of night so that the enemy wouldn't notice the assault on their flank in the noise of the battle before it was too late.

The Haradrim was not likely to bring Oliphants, like on the field of Pelennor, but just in case, Éomer had some large nets soaked in oil ready that soldiers could drop down from the top of the gorge and then throw fire down to lit the oil, causing the big animals to burn. This could be used against the Easterlings as well, just as long as no Rohirrics or Gondorians were nearby to be hit by the blazing fate.

Éomer had been commanding the forces on the wall with Aragorn at the last fight and had several ideas to improving the fortress. He still had long lists of things to be done before the foes arrived and he hoped the princes were willing to lend a hand.

"Are you comfortable my Lords?" he queried marching through the doors.

"As can be expected when in a sanctuary," Amrothos humoured slamming both feet up on the table and looking like the definition of comfortable.

"I am certain there is still much to be done, right?" Elphir asked Éomer not even waiting for an answer and sounding like a man used to getting things done. "We must have coordinated our men so we are not putting all the strength in one place. The weakest spots must be taken care of first." Éomer walked with demanding steps to a chair and sat down. The oldest prince went silent sensing that the king had a pressing matter to discuss.

"I want to ask you if either of you have any experience with this kind of fight from earlier on? You see keeping this stronghold is not quite like facing the other army on open land. We are going to use a lot of dirty tricks and if either of you have any problems with that we better talk about it now."

The two younger brothers turned towards Elphir immediately sending him questioning eyes. Éomer said nothing while the oldest looked appalled at the eyes staring at him.

"Don't look at me like that. I want to kill the bastards as much as you do!"

"Maybe so," Erchirion said. "But you tend to get really stiff every time it's about breaking rules." He had a smile on his lip, but Éomer could see that it was a serious statement.

"I will be no hindrance to any unauthorized means," Elphir promised, but not so loud. The two others smiled knowingly.

"If it helps, the Easterlings will stop at nothing to break through our lines. They'll have tricks of their own." The prince looked annoyed and a bit concerned at the same time, not really comforted by Éomers statement.

"I am not saying anything," he protested and his brothers started laughing in a childish manner that wouldn't make you think of four adult warlords preparing for battle.

Eventually the tone grew more serious and they began arguing about the position of the men and other imperative issues that had to be in order. Elphir proved to be really good at setting up the most advantageous defence while his two brothers had loads of crazy but very useful ideas as to how to distract and destroy the enemy. Amrothos suggested that they made little holders for extra spears that should be placed behind the rest of the men on the big wall so it would look like there were many more men than the actual number. Erchirion wanted to lead the men out on the open field where Éomer couldn't go because he had to look after things at the Hornburg. Elphir volunteered as the lord to stand in the tower surveying the battle and organising the men during the fighting. A quick mind was needed for one to occupy such a position and the younger brothers did agree that Elphir after all were brightest of the three. Éomer himself would be where he spent the last battle, on the wall. He preferred being where things happened and among his men.

The fresh red of Éomer's cheeks had returned, bearing witness to what Lothíriel had concluded months ago. He was made to wrestle the dark powers of the world. He couldn't be tired or bored on days like these.

Lothíriel had found a place to rest for a couple of hours in her sleep praying that the Easterlings wouldn't show until she had regained her strength. Completely exhausted she didn't open her eyes until noon next day. By then her hair was looking rather like a bunch of bird's nests and she decided that it would be wise to change before continuing. From underneath the chainmail she pulled a simple plain dress with no decorations what so ever. She folded a scarf around her head to hide her dark hair and then put on an apron like the ones healers always wore. The dress was so light and pleasant to wear that for a while she walked rather funny, exploring the full range of movement in the clothing that she wasn't used to at home.

Lothíriel had never before visited Helm's Deep, but she found a new respect for her father and his ancestors by walking around the Burg. The place had such an air of force about it, a raw northern-like power as the mountain upon which it was build. The men passing her were far bigger and more brutal looking than any of the soldiers in Gondor. Most of their charisma was based on their raggedness. They all seemed to her as the rocks by the sea, scared by an endless struggle with the ocean and weather, unshaved like bears that needed the warm fur to shield them from cool winds and tall and broad like the Deeping wall itself. Not too many even cared to glance her way, although she was stopped once by a tired captain, questioning her about her purpose. She answered without the pride of a princess that she was searching for the sanatorium. He directed her inside the Hornburg to a number of big rooms where healers were already running around washing and preparing dressings and medicine. She found the head healer, Malvea, a rather puzzling elderly woman, with very wide eyes and greyish hair. Her wrinkles were refined and white and she had a clean smell about her that left none to doubt her strict policy of neatness. Lothíriel was ordered to write down her name and what kind of healing she excelled in. Feeling reluctant to write her given name, Gondorian as it sounded, she settled on calling herself Esme, which was the name of Theldy's mother. "So Esme, where are you from?" the woman questioned. "A small village in the far north of the Eastemnet," Lothíriel responded carefully, hoping bitterly that Malvea wasn't familiar with that particular area. "Good, good, I'll need someone to handle the northern brutes," she smiled friendly, "their rough upbringing always get them into the biggest troubles." Lothíriel couldn't help sighing discouraged. "I am sure your brother's are some handful as well," the healer continued, misunderstanding Lothíriel's outburst and she had to nod in agreement. "We have no need for your services just yet, though. Most of the tools are prepared, so until the battle you'll be taking on other duties."

She was sent to the temporary tents where the women cooked enormous pots of porridge, baked baskets of bread and roasted speared lamb for the many hungry men. She spent all her time chopping cabbage. It's was not exactly a seeming job for a princess and she had never done anything like it before. Running the castle back home did not consist of such tasks and Lothíriel was both clumsy and slow. She ended up being threatened with a wooden spoon by the woman, who organised the process, if she didn't pick up her pace. "We'll never get to feed those greedy bastards, if you don't hurry up and I for my part would like to spare myself of their childish complaining." A kind stranger who spoke with a confusingly fast and low voice showed her how to hold the vegetable to speed things up. Blushing Lothíriel bend over the cabbage and imitated the movement successfully. She struggled her way through the piles and went to sleep with the other healers when the night came, completely exhausted from the unfamiliar work.

The following day was much the same and after getting the hang of her new assignment she found that she was pleased with her current position. There was no better way to pick up any gossip about the approaching army than in the kitchen with the exception of the royal hall, where the scouts delivered their rapports, so it was easy for her to stay aware. Also no men were allowed in the kitchen with the exception of those carrying in the large baskets of cabbage or meat. This meant she was safe from the scrutinising eyes of her brothers. On the third day in the Burg she decided to notify Amrothos of her presence and wrote a small letter that she had a captain deliver. The answer came in the afternoon, while she was finishing her last pile of vegetables.

"Sister!" His voice went as confusion through the kitchen tent and outbursts came from the lot of women who was agitated with the presence of a man on their territory. Amrothos ran to her and embraced her with amusement on his face. "Look at you, all commoner-like and red-cheeked from the steaming pots," he jested pinching her arm. "And you seem so content at the same time."

"Let me go," she laughed retracting her arm. "Yes, if you must know, I am doing very well here, and I asked you not to come." The other women sent Amrothos curious looks because of his fine clothing. Surely such a respectable man could not be the brother of a simple kitchen assistant. He dragged her from the tent and out in the cold air.

"Well I did come, sister. I am not comfortable with you playing around here. Battle is actually approaching and you won't think that this is just an exciting adventure no more." His face was unusually severe and she patted him gratefully on the shoulder.

"There's is no need to worry for me Amrothos. I am doing fine and I am ready for battle. But I don't think you should tell our brothers that I am here." He looked slightly guilty.

"I already have sis. Sorry, I was concerned for you. Three days before I receive a note telling me that you have been here all along and that you are sleeping with the healers. Lothíriel for God sake, you're a princess, you shouldn't be here." She stepped backwards mortified.

"Amrothos, you promised." Her voice was that of a little sister in dismay and he reached for her pulling her into him.

"I have told Elphir, and he insists that you are sent home immediately. You know, I actually fought for your right to be here, alongside us. I think you're very strong and adept." She peered suspiciously at him, but saw that the praise was genuine. Lothíriel pressed her nails into his upper arms looking strangely determined.

"I will not leave." She turned on her heel and walked back inside while he nervously scratched his head unsure what to do next. Lothíriel waited anxiously for him to return and simply carry her to the nearest horse, strap her on and slap the animal till it ran off home. But he did not enter the tent again and she cut the rest of the cabbage before being released from duty.

As Lothíriel walked back to the citadel where the healers' quarters lay she considered Amrothos expression as he had warned her of the battle. She and he had always been close because they were so very similar in their perception of the world and she knew him as a careless soul who hardly ever managed to take anything serious. His eyes had, however, altered and now consisted of thoughts of a more grim nature and she felt the chill of death blow her skirt up. Amrothos new characteristics did not scare her off though. Lothíriel only felt more certain that she was growing up and should take on the responsibilities of any woman. The caretaking of the warriors was important and vital business and she knew she had to be a part of the war one way or the other.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – There will be war

Éomer knew the enemy was approaching when he opened his eyes in the dark morning. Somehow the air was thicker with a bitter taste of iron. He had slept only a few hours and felt tired and bitter. It was not the perfect day to meet the Easterlings, but he didn't really have a choice. Now was the time to lead his men and when Éomer arose from the bed he was ready.

In the hall Elphir and Amrothos was arguing when Éomer entered and they didn't notice the king coming.

"Then where is she now? I sent men to the kitchens, but she didn't show." The elder brother was upset and had a threatening hand behind the younger's neck.

"Why do you assume that I know?" Amrothos snapped.

"Because she always confides in you. Don't lie to me, you know where she is." Elphir was all red from fury and Éomer hurried towards them.

"What is going on?" he inquired causing both Gondorians to wince. Amrothos shook his head cautiously towards his brother and Elphir likewise seemed unwilling to share their problems with the ally.

"Nothing you need worry about, Lord Éomer. My idiotic brother just happened to act foolishly – again - and now it has meant misery for a young lady." The lie was spoken with such firm conviction that Éomer did not consider the argument further.

"You princes don't think that it is somewhat irrelevant in the current situation?" They sent each other hesitant looks, but Elphir nodded slowly.

"Indeed my friend, most unbecoming for us generals to be arguing today. You have heard the horns then?" The prince quickly questioned turning the conversation away from their missing sister.

"I am sorry to say that I have," Éomer sighed. "It won't be long now and we must be ready. Find your brother and see to your men. The Easterlings will be here a couple of hours before the sun sets. It is our hope that they won't fight in the dark, as it is their custom to fight underneath the sun." He glanced out the door where the first traces of light washed the stone floor.

"Why is that?" Amrothos wondered and Éomer turned to face the prince.

"They worship the sun as their god. When they fight underneath it, they believe that it will grant them glory and miraculous powers. This is of course ridiculous," he smiled, "but I will not claim that they aren't strong anyway. It is an army of skilled men." Amrothos dried his forehead with his cloak, suddenly very sweaty. The elder brother saw his alarm and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"It is a good thing we have this little prince here," Elphir signalled the younger brother at Éomer and the Rohirric answered consciously;

"Yes, we can't lose this battle with a bright mind like Amrothos on our side," he smiled and reached to pat the prince on the back. _So young a man_, Éomer thought. _And so full of the bold spirit of youngsters_. He reminded himself to keep one eye on the prince, _for the sake of Lothíriel_.

The day passed by too hastily and when the sun stood low in the sky they could all see the dark shadow of an army moving towards Helms Deep. Lothíriel held her breath as she stood on the square in front of the Burg watching. There was no need of the healers just yet, so the braver ones of them had gathered outside the infirmary to follow the slow march of the Easterlings. Most of the women beside Lothíriel had husbands, sons, fathers or brothers waiting with sword in hand. Malvea called them together and told them to hold hands for a prayer.

"You also Esme," she demanded and it took a moment for Lothíriel to realise that she was the one who was being called. "Good," Malvea nodded when they were all standing close. "This is going to be one hard time for all of us. We vow to do the very best we can to stitch these brave men back together and cleanse their wounds. I want everybody to keep a smile on their face and a song on your lip, because there is going to be so much fear soon that the brave worriers are going to long for some calm and beautiful ladies, that can remind them that not all hope is gone. Can you do that for me girls?" A lot of the women present were older that Malvea, but it felt good to have a mother near who could talk of good times. Lothíriel suddenly realised that she had not said goodbye to anyone, in case this went completely wrong and the Gondorian and Rohirrics failed to stand against the invaders. She thought of her sister and mother, as Malvea spoke of fellowship and she sent thoughts of comfort to her brothers. Imrahil was the last one to cross her mind, but no less important than the others. She was hoping that she would return stronger from this, because he would surely go mad with grief if he lost her and Elphir, Erchirion and Amrothos. She wanted to go and see the brothers and ask for their forgiveness for her disobedience, but she knew there was still time for them to send her home.

The Easterlings camped no more than two miles from Helms Deep. Éomer reckoned that the battle would not begin until dawn. He sent off more spies to get at better estimate of their numbers and commanded all to get a good night's sleep. Obviously, to many people, that was not an option. Éomer went for a walk on the wall to check on the guards and he stared longingly at the firesides in the distance. The ominous glow made his sword burn. He felt that familiar yearning towards the moment of battle where he would know what to do with himself. Waiting was always hard on his men and even though he hated to admit it, it was a great discomfort to him as well. The silence covered the field before him like a mocking friend, because he knew that it wouldn't last. He closed his eyes and remembered the sweet seductive tune of that night so many months ago. Surely she would turn nineteen soon and receive gifts from all her admirers at court. He turned when he heard the vague sound of chanting voices and knew they came from the infirmary. He knew Malvea because she had tended to his wounds many times and she had the strangest idea that singing could ease the pain of her patients. He had laughed at the foolishness when she had tried it on him, but as he sat on the great wall listening to the modest choir in solicitous singing he felt the intended effect in his breast and became tranquil.

The blood red sunrise revealed two organized camps with strait lines of proud soldiers ready to destroy and defend. All had burning eyes and trembling anticipating hands. Éomer saw one of the younger boys vomit and the men beside him trying to ignore it out of fear that they might disgrace themselves in a similar manner. He saw the little signs for luck being rubbed and kissed and the fingers loosening and tightening around the swords or bows. A smell of anxiety and eagerness mixed with iron and cobber and it was impossible to achieve just a moment of complete peace because of the rustling of armours and heavy breathing of hundreds of tense men. The enemy blew the signal to march and a heavy noise of trudging feet rose to meet his waiting men. Down in front of the walls the horsemen held back their stallions, those proud beasts who most defiantly knew their purpose. They needed only the slightest nudge from the reins and they would carry their masters into battle. Éomer inhaled the warm comforting smell of the sweaty pelt beneath him and lifted his gaze towards the enemy.

"Men!" He called, "we stand in the warm rays of the rising sun and in the warm presence of each other. Rohirric and Gondorian never stood as close as on this day. Once Rohan came to the aid of Gondor, today we are together again, but this time surely we are more brothers than allies. The Easterlings think that they can conquer our land and take our women. But they are wrong!" A cheer answered him from all around and he saw Elphir lift his sword and speak.

"Éomer King, Rohirrim, Gondorians, we won the land from Sauron, the greatest evil of our times." The men vigorously banged on their shields and armour. "We were never weak alone, we fought off all our enemies, but now we are twice as strong and no fatherless ungodly barbarians shall ever claim this land!" Éomer never expected Elphir to know such an offence. This was truly a time to show strength and glory. He roared and heard the warriors answering him.

"Charge!" The horns were blowing like an echo of heroes' hearts and the horses pranced and started running. In the minute before the two armies collided there was such an air of determination. Then the ground was spattered with red rain. From the Great wall they saw the small men sink their weapon into foreign flesh. Erchirion rode with his shining blue armour, yielding for none. Éomer saw the red clad Easterlings with their strangely shaped swords and longed to deprive them of their confident smiles.

The first cries of pain resounded and Lothíriel felt her heart and muscles retract in temporary denial of what her ears told her was true. She knew that at least one of her brothers was out there fighting now and she prayed with all her heart that he would survive and return to her. Malvea stood at the terrace overlooking the malevolent scenery.

"Look at them Esme," she sighed. Lothíriel hardly dared. "Our men out there, fighting." Her voice wore the smallest note of anger and then her face altered into that of a mother's. "It is men who start and finish wars, if only people like you and I had a saying my girl. The world would be a kinder place." Lothíriel looked at the woman with surprised eyes.

"Are you saying that our men are no better than the Easterlings?" Malvea didn't react.

"Let's just do what we do best aye?" she answered with optimism. Lothíriel could handle no such words and turned away.

Éomer tried to trace the signs of superiority from either of the armies but lives were lost on both sides and men chopped each other down in a thin line of slaughtering. He turned to Edome by his side.

"What do you think?" The captain lowered his gaze.

"We are losing men to quickly, my lord; I say lure the enemy into the canyon and release the traps." Éomer considered the advice and nodded.

"The battle on the field isn't working, we are too equally matched."

Meanwhile Erchirion was regrouping. The Rohirrim were the better horsemen, but the Easterlings had horses that were lighter and moved easily around the fleshy western stallions. The Easterlings relied too much on the skills of their animals so the archers on horseback lacked the same routine that the Rohirric mastered. Erchirion found that the Easterlings in spite of their strength had very little experience. This was a new army built to take Rohan and Gondor. It had not been scarred as the western warriors during the Ring War. Slowly the Rohirrim gained the field, man by man. The inexperience of the enemies was working against them. Their youthful force became their weakness.

On the Wall they heard the distant shouts of demands to push themselves harder. Lothíriel dared following some of the healers to the gates where she read the faces of the men. The hopeful eyes all around gave her a little peace of mind. Still the song of death rode upon the wind towards the Burg and she knew that her brother was far from safe.

"I wish I could be out there to see what is going on, I hate this." The young girl beside Lothíriel had worrying eyes.

"I know what you mean," Lothíriel replied, "I have my brothers out there." A tear crossed the healer's cheek. "Now don't cry. We must be brave, yes?" She put her arm around the girl. "We better not linger here too long. Soon we will be needed in the infirmary."

As they hurried back a loud roar rose from somewhere out in the field. Something decisive had occurred, but Lothíriel had no way of knowing what it was. It seemed that the men around her was just as intrigued and as the healers made their way back they tried catching a glimpse of the battle going on outside the burg. When they returned to the terrace where the rest awaited them they were bombarded with questions they could not answer. Some women were already tearing up but Lothíriel could hardly sympathise with the hysterical sobbing. Evidently it was a terrible time for them all but if anyone had the right to be scared it was not the relatively safe womenfolk. Not yet anyway. If the men on the field started showing signs of defeat, then yes, she would probably start falling apart too. But it was early to spill one's tears and Lothíriel had more faith in her brothers and their allies than the sniffling woman. While turning towards the fight and sound of fiends she caught a stray hair and firmly forced it back in its bonds. No place for anything loose now. Lothíriel could just see over the men on the wall from her position but still it was a blur of colliding bodies and horses in the field. Neither names nor origin could be eyed from such a distance but she felt in her heart that they were inescapably surrounded be evildoers. A wall, matching the one of the Burg, was glittering in the air above the foreign army. A wall made of fear and strength, taller than the mountains, and even though she knew that the walls were not made of hard rock or even something material as the in the Burg it was a defence as threatening as the safe in which she stood herself. If only they had a wizard on their side or some mystical force to arm them better against harm, but along with the elves a lot of magic had left the world and she was very aware of how alone men now were. Destinies were no longer decided upon the tip of wand or in the bobbling cauldron of ancient demon's shifting moods. It was the muscles and the cleverness of mankind that wrestled now and this epiphany made her strangely strong. She did not know the ways of gods or mythical powers but she knew the will of her brothers and the swiftness of their swords and minds. They would take fate into their hands now and they would overcome that certainly mortal enemy who was challenging them. Her spirit rose and she went into the halls to prepare with no desire of following the battles from now on. Lothíriel put her faith in her brothers and in King Éomer and she felt ready to contribute with her skills.

Then the first wounded came. Men that had been found in time to bring them back to the healers and Lothíriel stood first in line when bleeding warriors were carried to the hall. She could not expect to be so safe inside the Burg throughout the entire war. Bleeding men did not just come wandering up the stairs by themselves but for now she could focus on the ones given to her. The first was a though old Rohirric who refused to even wince when she drew out the arrow from his thigh. He allowed her wordlessly to remove his armour and revealing a far more serious wound. Somehow a sword had managed to cleave through his leathery protection and sliced of meat from the side of his ribs. The bleeding was almost impossible to stop but Lothíriel handled it carefully and with some help from bright Malvea. They left him on a bed to rest while they turned to other tasks. Lothíriel began stitching the sword arm of a young Gondorian while being ever so careful not to expose herself. Nevertheless the young man suddenly caught her eye and looked taken aback. She leaned close guessing the expression on his face and whispered sweetly.

"Do not call out my name in these halls soldier. You will keep your tongue and tell none of me." She recognised him now as the son of an important captain in her father's army. The young man had often visited court as his old man was much respected and loved by Imrahil.

"Princess," he gasped and gazed up and down her humble clothing.

"Indeed, but I was neither brought here, nor invited you see, so it would be better if you make no mention of me." She quickly finished but made sure she was as polite and gentle with him as possible. Lothíriel would give him no reason to tell her brothers of her whereabouts. As soon as she was done with him he went out the infirmary but not running with a speculating grimace, luckily. His mind was back on the war, though he was likely to give the meeting a lot of thought later, if he ever got the opportunity. All her careful discretion was for nothing, however, for in that instant the unmistakable shape of Erchirion emerged through the door carried by four men. Lothíriel knew then what the loud roar from the field earlier had meant, oh how it had taken them long to bring him to safety. Her cheeks went red with grief and worry as she immediately sprang to the men holding him and leading them to a nice bed.

He was in less of a bad shape than she had first presumed. He was unconscious but not due to a blow to the head or too much loss of blood. Ferocious even when blacked out he held his sword tight within his grasp and she had to force it away before being able to strip him down revealing the damages. There was very little skin not covered in either blood or cuts or black marks. Lothíriel had to patiently wash all dirt and stains away to be able to locate the worst bruises. He had broken a rib and had several cuts frighteningly near to vital places, such as neck and heart. A sword or knife had brushed his face and left a scratch starting from above the eyebrow and vertically down over the cheek. This did nothing but scar his beauty but to a sister that is more than enough. She kissed him tenderly not caring whether Malvea stared at her accusingly. The elder healer still believed Lothíriel to be Rohirric and she no doubt knew that the man on the bed was the Gondorian prince. Lothíriel continued feeling his body until she found the bashed spots. His sword arm was broken and the shoulder dislocated. _He will never be able to live without a functional sword arm_, she though terrified and began the best she could to treat the brother. When she, with quite an effort of strength, fixed the shoulder he opened his eyes briefly and looked at her with surprise in his face.

"Sister, you are here?!" The voice was hoarse from shouting orders already and instead of answering she hurried to fetch him water. He drank and then lifted his healthy arm to cup her cheek. "You should not be here. Think of the misery you will be causing." She put a finger on his lip.

"No. Don't think about that, brother. Think instead of the good I will be causing. I will not stay behind. I cannot fight, but that does not mean that I am useless." She gestured his shoulder. He went still and looked at her quietly before slowly passing into unconsciousness again. His reaction to her presence was less angry than she had imagined. But then Erchirion had always cared much for her and never deprived her of his company. He also knew that though she wasn't as strong as their younger sister, Amlin, she had a way of staying out of trouble and to manage obstacles rationally. He trusted her judgement.

She had difficulties letting her brother go once she had treated him but others craved her instantaneous attention. So Lothíriel washed her hands and with less eager steps than before went to the next patient in line.

Éomer had seen when Erchirion fell and he felt awful. Not only was the prince an excellent leader in the field but he was dear to Lothíriel. Yes, even here, when he should be focusing on more grim business, she pierced his mind. Éomer forced the indefinite colour of her eyes from his dreaming and yelled out orders of retreat. It was not necessary to make demands of fall back just because the leader of the minor charge was wounded or even dead. They were gaining land each minute and yet he felt that the time had come to cause the coldblooded hounds some serious damage. The traps were waiting to feed on the invaders' flesh. At the signal the Rohirrics and the few Gondorian riders turned suddenly and plundered back, avoiding the pattern of hidden holes in the ground. The enemy hesitated shortly, confused with the sudden retreat, but in their youthful ignorance they did not see through the trick. Drunk with the small victory they shouted to pursue the cowards. In rapid succession the Haradrim rode into danger and Éomer did not wink once, discretely feasting on the sight of disappearing foreigners. The screams from the holes were horrific. Even the men on the wall winced slightly at the thought of the sharp sticks awaiting the unfortunates on the bottom. When the first had fallen, the next riders tried to stop the charge, but easterlings from behind pushed them forward, forcing more of their own into death. Finally some of their captains realised that they were all riding directly towards traps and demanded a fallback.

The Gate shut behind the last Gondorian rider and Éomer felt a rush when the men on the wall broke into taunting cheer. Angrily the easterlings moved back and forth on their black horses in the attempt to figure out the safe passage through. Dark curses in the foreign tongue were tossed at the far walls without affecting anyone. It was not possible to count the losses just yet, but Éomer felt optimistic. Slowly the easterlings rode back to their camp while considering their next move. Perhaps there would be no more fighting today until the spies, in the midst of night, had uncovered the pattern of traps in the ground. He told the men to hold their positions as he made his way through to Elphir in the towers over the Gate.

"What do you propose we do now?" Éomer asked and the Gondorian prince hesitated.

"It is likely to be a while before they ride out again. Before sunset, if nothing has happened, we raise the flag so they can collect their dead: Those who can be retrieved that is." Éomer looked to the distant camp.

"Yes, I'll send out more scouts. We need to know more of their numbers." Elphir followed his gaze.

"Do you think they will send their leader for negotiations?" he questioned calculating. "It is their costume after all." The men around them moved tensely at the thought of their leader so vulnerable and close to the enemy. They all counted on their king and princes, and trusted them to steer their every movement.

"Yes, the leader will soon call upon me." He frowned. "The obligatory warning to surrender," Éomer snorted. "They will receive no warm welcome." Elphir froze at the sound of the king's coldness in his voice.

"Do you intent to kill the diplomat?" The Rohirric king grunted like he would very much like to, but shook his head.

"No, when it comes to diplomacy we will play by the rules. We won this small fistfight," he concluded, "but more and harder hours will come when the courage of every man will be tested and we should not celebrate yet." Elphir agreed.

"However, it is an advantage to open the feast like this," the prince spoke gloomily. "The faster we slay them down, the higher the men's spirit. They should rest for now King Éomer. They'll need their full strength when the waves start coming in hard." The two leaders parted and Éomer went to see the returning warriors. He found them uplifted in spite of the loss of friends and among them was Erkenbrand blushing from the exertion but unharmed. The man was born lucky and even though there were many men more skilled than Erkenbrand he somehow managed to cut them down without getting a scratch himself. Along with Edome Erkenbrand was Éomers closest friend and captain and he had always been loyal to the king.

"My Lord," the bloodstained man called as he saw Éomer. "All well?" A smile crossed Éomer's face by the casual note in his friend's talk.

"Indeed, you did well out there. I sure am happy that you are here from the beginning this time." They both recollected how Erkenbrand had come to aid at the great battle against the orcs of Saruman and were pleased that they had the chance of fighting alongside each other again.

"None too many are wounded badly, and the casualties are few," he reported, his face strong but his eyes revealing the close encounter with death.

"Splendid my friend, it was a good move to ride out. I knew you would lead them well." Éomer always felt proud when he had made a reasonable and successful strike, but the captain denied the honour.

"Erchirion carried the men out there, not me. I first thought him to delicate for a warrior, but you should not judge the Gondorians on their slender bodies. He had such passionate rage and rationale in his movements my Lord and the men were so inspired. Indeed he is no horseman," the both laughed abruptly, "but Erchirion has abilities like a demigod." It was rare to hear such praise from Erkenbrand's lips and Éomer decided to go and see the prince right away. Congratulations were in order.

The infirmary appeared to be chaos at first, the healers running to and fro and men pressing their wounds to stop the bleeding. Éomer located Malvea and eventually got her to point out Prince Erchirion's bed. She was distracted by a wailing Gondorian who had his left leg chopped halfway off a little above the knee. A flustered Rohirric girl came with word to Malvea at the same time, about one of the women who was giving birth, hiding in the caves. The old healer yelled for an unknown, Esme to deal with it. As the chosen woman ran out through the door Malvea smiled at him really not focusing on her king and gestured a bed at the far end of the hall. Éomer tried not to get in anyone's way as he strode towards the prince.

Erchirion was awake and became exceedingly happy to see Éomer.

"My friend! Will you go and tell that bossy lady that I am ready to leave now," he spoke annoyed at the command to stay where he was.

"Be calm prince, you have earned yourself a little rest." The Gondorian looked surprised at him and unconsciously touched the scrapes on his naked breast. The dark hair was moist with sweat and the eyes still somewhat hazy.

"Has the fighting stopped?" he queried stunned with how quickly it had all ended. Éomer sat on an unoccupied bed beside the prince and confirmed.

"Thanks to you, our attack went perfectly. My friend Erkenbrand spoke of your deeds out there and the Rohirric owes you great gratitude. Such passion in the fight for foreigners like me and my people are rarely seen and you must allow me to salute you." Éomer rose from the bed and bowed deeply. The prince looked flustered but accepted the recognition with graceful humility.

"My father and sister had nothing but good words to speak of you when they returned. It is only an honour to serve Rohan," Erchirion assured him and Éomer held his breath.

"Your sister? I was under the impression that we parted on very ill terms after I had treated her, well discriminatorily..."

"No, she was very kind on your reputation, but would not speak much of what had happened in Edoras. She did tell me though, that she was ashamed of her own conduct towards you and though you had angered her, she did respect you and admired your character." Lothíriel spoke only to Erchirion and Amrothos of her troubles and not even Amlin were included in her private thoughts. But the two brothers had talked to her of the occurrences in the autumn and comforted her when she expressed her bitterness towards the whole affair. She had told them that she had wronged the King of Rohan and regretted her actions at the farewell dinner. She was, however, too proud to apologise, though, as she often saw the good in others, she knew that Éomer had facets surely admirable although still hidden to her.

Éomer was understandably bewildered by this information and could not help to feel a small hope growing inside him. _She does not despise me,_ he wondered. _How can that be? I did nothing right with her insulting her all the time._ Erchirion sat quiet trying to read the king's mind and thought about what a man could be thinking about his reluctant former bride.

"I should write her," Éomer spoke out loud not noticing the sudden worried face of the prince who started scanning the room for his disguised sister. "Tell her that she should not be resentful towards herself and that I think no less of her after her rejection." Erchirion fastened his eyes on Éomer and slowly answered.

"I am sure she would be pleased with such a letter. Maybe she would even consider returning to visit Edoras once." His eyes flickered searching the faces of the healers, but Éomer was too cheerful to see. He bid Erchirion goodbye and good health before trotting to the royal chamber reserved for the king in the depths of the Hornburg.

Lothíriel had never delivered a baby before but when she saw the Rohirric king in the infirmary there was no leaving too quickly. When she arrived to the woman in labour the child was well on its way and soon, without any difficulties, a pink babe lay between his mother's breasts.

"What a beauty," exclaimed the women gathered around and the presence of the new tiny life made them all forget about the terrors outside. Lothíriel allowed herself a short pause where she sat and warmed herself on the handsome sight of mother and child. This blood was far more meaningful to her than the rivers streaming from battered men and even though she wanted to get back and fulfil her duty there was an air of tranquillity that she could not easily leave in the cave. The spectacular scenery added to the magic of the moment and Lothíriel briefly considered that she might have been both married and pregnant by now if she hadn't walked out on her father's agreement. The thought awoke both relief and sorrow within her, because on some level that child was so very important when born around all this death: A proof that someone was still going in the right direction.

"What should I name him?" the mother asked and Lothíriel was late to discover that the question was directed at her. All confused she stayed silent and the mother continued: "maybe I should give him a Gondorian name, in honour of our allies? Do you know any of those Esme?" Lothíriel spoke the first name to cross her mind:

"Erchirion, that is the name of the fallen Gondorian prince," she told them and the mother tasted on the strange word.

"Erchirion… it sounds so heroic." The women concurred and chuckled when the boy fought vigorously with his arms to find the milk. Lothíriel enjoyed the sight a few more moments and then took her leave.

Back with Malvea things were beginning to calm down. Most men had been treated and now sat talking quietly together on the beds. The mood was almost pleasant and she felt like sitting down and joining the conversation. The warriors humoured and smiled as if they were not wrapt in careful dressings and had a mob of attentive women telling them to rest and not strain themselves. Malvea allowed no drinking vine or ale in the infirmary and that was the only condition that caused some protests, but of course she wouldn't yield for any argument. They tried bribing a laughing Lothíriel to sneak in some for them anyway, but she refused sweetly. From his bed Erchirion watched how heartedly she smiled at the rude bantering and how well she looked even without her usual glitter, just plain and simple. It was a strange sight to see how adapt she was to the company of these northern people. She spoke their language flawlessly and only blushed shyly when they used inappropriate idiom. She really was far from a Gondorian princess in that company and maybe she somehow looked more at peace. Perhaps it was that she wasn't wearing fancy clothes and wasn't followed by strict teachers or perhaps she just flowered when she stood on her own two feet. He reminded himself to pay her more credit from now on when she wanted to do something.

When the sun was highest in the sky Éomer was disturbed in the middle of his letter writing. At first the pawn hardly dared speak his message because of the annoyed look on his master's face. After lifting his eyebrows demandingly the boy, however, told him that a delegation from the enemy was approaching. Éomer carefully put the writing aside and then hurried for the Hornburg-gates. When he got there Erkenbrand began fussing over him like a mother making sure he looked proper for the encounter.

Éomer went only with Amrothos and Edome by his side. If the easterlings decided to ambush them, Erkenbrand and the two elder Gondorian princes would take over. Still the small party looked impressing, Éomer in the front with his sword deliberately visible, leaving none to doubt his ferocity. They took three horses, all of the beasts looking sturdy and big in their traditional war equipment and rode out in a dignifying slow pace. A small tent had been raised near the middle of the field and here two men stood guard holding banners of negotiation. The brief ride to the tent managed to harden the look on Amrothos' face to a degree Éomer had not witnessed before. The young prince had a natural happy expression but in the nearness of danger he grew silently serious.

"Hail the King of Rohan," both of the guards echoed when they reached them. "Lay down your sword, Horse Lord, and present your fellow riders." Éomer went all red faced and answered briskly:

"My sword is as much a fellow rider as these men behind me. Go tell your king that Erkenbrand of Limlight and Amrothos of Gondor ride with Éomer King." The guards looked bitter and he felt how Erkenbrand took a deep breath when a voice from the tent resounded in the cursed foreign language. The men at the entrance lifted the fabric aside and made a welcoming gesture.

It was dark in the small room and the King of Harad was dark too. Éomer walked slow enough to feel if there was anything on the floor that might have made him trip. The eastern king was old but his hair was still ravening black. His skin hung on his thin body like wrinkly lumps while his eyes were glowing with greed and fire. A glimpse of past beauty revealed itself to them when he rose from his golden chair and swept towards Éomer. There were two more men in the tent and a young girl. She was remarkably misplaced and sat playing with a small army of dolls. In spite of her innocent appearance she signalled doom to the allies and reminded them of the new life that would come to the lands if they failed. The king was very silent and as Éomer refused to speak first, being the guest, the tension grew. Amrothos had difficulties keeping his eye still but explored the richly decorated tent. Red and gold were the dominant colours, quite in contrast to the blue, green and silver of the Gondorians and Rohirrics. The Eastern king had chosen to display much of his impressive wealth almost as a statement to the soon-to-be-conquered. Rohan was a poor speck, but none the less an important key.

"So we meet after so much time of waiting," the king finally spoke. Éomer only thought that if he could choose he would like to wait a hell of a lot longer. "I am King Cairbre, and you," he took a long piercing look on all of them, "are my self-announced enemies."

"And when, if you care to explain, did we choose to become your enemy?" Éomer spoke crossly. The Cairbre smiled.

"Long ago this land and the land of Gondor belonged to a great empire ruled by my precursors; I am simply taking back what the Gondorians stole and later granted you. I am the true heir to Rohan and Gondor and since your land is by far the weaker, I thought I would start by retrieving this fine northern soil." Éomer's muscles tensed and he longed to reach for his sword. Then Amrothos stepped forth:

"You are mistaken if you believe yourself entitled for before the empire and throughout its time the Gondorians still lived and harvested their fields in the old land. We never stole it from your line, we won it back." The king turned taller as if by magic.

"I am guessing that your father told you those lies, prince of stolen fields?" Éomer knew the old stories too but the young prince didn't seem to need help.

"I have read the old documents from when Gondor first was forced to surrender to the power of the empire. It is no lie and you are nothing but a king of robbers." The offence made Éomer move his hand to his sword. He was unfamiliar with King Cairbre and Éomer knew that he himself would have been furious with such a name. The dark man didn't make a movement, however, and only one of the men behind him responded with an angry shout. He was silenced by his king's hand as Cairbre went closer to Amrothos. Éomer blocked the king's way and he spoke harshly.

"You know now where we stand Lord of Thieves," Éomer and the easterlings was about the same height but there was no doubt that the Rohirric king would win if they were to duel. "We have gathered, not to let you cut us down like straw, but to prove to you once and for all that you have no business on these grounds. We will fight till death and we are as strong as the northern soil you strive to posses. And if we all die our women will fight in our place, you must know the reputation of our ladies."

Cairbre snorted disgusted: "Yes I know your women well, so brawny you would think them to be young men if they didn't act like lascivious cattle. And you men… you are coarse like sand so that no real woman could desire you. Am I right, Lord Éomer bride repellor?" His evil words made Éomer jump forward till their noses were touching.

"Be aware King Cairbre, you are on lion territory." Then he turned and marched out the tent while Erkenbrand announced coldly:

"The negotiations are concluded. You will have you war."

There had been commotion in the Burg ever since Éomer returned safely. He had been in such a mood that he had driven his horse to destroy an old rotting wagon and then locked himself in the counsel hall with his captains and the two Gondorian princes. Lothíriel was sitting by Erchirion telling him the gossip she had picked up about the meeting between the kings. He listened attentively and then told her that he could lie here when there was a meeting in the hall.

"Please take me there, sister. You know I have to be there." He was one of the few Lothíriel knew of who was capable of looking demanding and begging at the same time, an excellent way of confusing and convincing others. She knew that he was able to go there, but she didn't care to risk any further damage.

"Please just wait for the news to come to you brother," she pleaded but his disappointment with the declination made her change her mind. He refused to be aided by women from the infirmary, so Lothíriel made one of the men with a lesser injury assist her in bringing Erchirion to the hall.

Éomer stood by the window keeping one eye on the enemy camp and one on the small gathering. The captains were adjusting the tactic moving around little pieces of wood like the girl in the tent on a map. He had kept out of the discussion knowing that his temper was very ill fit for rational conversation. Erkenbrand kept sending him nervous looks well aware of how Cairbre's reference to Lothíriel had affected his master. In that moment there was a knock on the door and Edome went to check who was bothering this exclusive meeting. Éomer had no view of the hallway from his position but he saw the astonished look on his friend's face.

"My Lord," he called, "Prince Erchirion is here." Éomer made a gesture for him to open the door and as he saw who entered with the prince he was paralysed. The room fell silent and even Elphir didn't move to scold his sister as Éomer's facial expression held him back. At first she didn't see him. Lothíriel helped her brother to a chair and then lifted a shy face to look at the static spectators. He saw how she slowly turned towards him and her discrete reaction as her hands clenched and she winked like she had known this was coming but sooner than she expected. He had no control or conception of his own expression as she carefully made her way to him.

"Lord Éomer" she greeted with a low voice and curtsied. He bowed automatically.

"Princess Lothíriel, this an unexpected place to see you." She blushed as he had never seen it before and the eyes were a pale blue.

"Indeed, I hope both you and my family will be able to forgive this unorthodox conduct." She had gathered her hands behind her back and had such a humble pose that he could not quite believe that it was her.

"But what are you doing here, milady? " She led her eyes into his and he felt the numbness of his anger from earlier disappear and comforting warmth spread in him.

"I came to contribute. I have been working in the infirmary." She watched him for a reaction and he tried to hide his emotions of joy.

"You are as persistent as my dear sister," he told her and she was flattered by the praise. Éomer was afraid to say anything that might cause her to get angry again and he was a little embarrassed by her presence. She was nervous too but she hid it well.

"I hope we will get the time to talk privately Lord Éomer," she then said, "but for now I think I will return to my duties." She eyed Elphir, waiting for any protests, but the older brother did not speak a word. Lothíriel was well aware that the consequences would follow sooner or later but seeing the man she had disgraced in such a terrible manner made her forget the all the rest. She wanted to talk to him, apologise, and she was worried that this brief revelation would get her sent home. There was no desire in her to leave now, but she might not get a saying and perhaps it was for the best.

17


End file.
